A/N: First-thanks to everyone who has taken the time to check out this story. I appreciate your readership. Next-thanks to my beta NaiveEve (go read "Unfair"-it's great) for her remarkable attention to detail and her excellent suggestions.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
-4-
"Sooo, what's up?"
House saunters into the conference room, taking care to maintain his limp and (outwardly at least) sustain a mid-range level of his usual arrogance. Keeping things as normal as possible under these extremely abnormal conditions was the key to making it through this day, sanity intact.
"We'd just about given up on you," Foreman tells him, already clad in his windbreaker, car keys jangling in one hand. "It's almost five, we thought maybe you'd gone home."
"You thought wrong." House glares at him then indicates Chase and Cameron with a sweep of his hand. "I don't see these guys waiting for the little hand to tickle the five and the big hand to hit the twelve." The pair in question sit side by side at the conference table, file folders open before them. Empty coffee cups and crumpled sheets of legal paper litter the perimeter of their work area.
House strolls past them, rounds the corner of the table to stand next to Foreman. He smirks as he bellows, "Why, Foreman, you must have a date."
Foreman scowls and raps his knuckles against the back of his seat.
"Aha! Must be a good one. Who is it? That hungry looking mama from the E.R.?
"House..." Cameron leans back, folds her arms across her chest. "This is one of those rare times we can all have the evening off once we finish up here."
"Right, then." He sits at the head of the table, tossing a wink at Foreman who suddenly becomes very interested in his fingernails. "Tell me what you've found."
"You're not going to like it."
House shoots her a scowl, making an impatient rolling motion with his hand.
"We found nothing," Cameron says. "The ailments of the three 'sudden death' victims were not even close to being similar. We had a sixty year old woman in for pneumonia, fifty two year old guy here for the removal of a benign tumor under his arm, and a nineteen year old boy with a throat infection. There is absolutely nothing to tie them together." She sighs, slapping closed the folder in front of her. "We tried, House. Look at the white board."
On the board, scribbled in black dry-mark, is a massive list of symptoms and diagnostic speculations.
"Maybe you should have a look at the files."
He shakes his head. "I don't need to have a look."
"You're satisfied with what we...didn't find?" Chase asks.
"Yep."
"House," Foreman shoves his keys into his pocket and takes a seat. "you should at least go over the files. Lots of times you pick up on things we don't."
He bows his head, shivers and slowly rubs his palms together.
"House?" Cameron says softly. "You okay?" Her overblown concern is as contagious as a head cold. Aw hell. He raises his eyes and glances at each of them in turn. They've all caught it now.
"Leave the files. I'll go over them...later." Tomorrow. Next week. Never. He rises from his seat then turns to Foreman. "Did you schedule the MRI?"
"Tomorrow. Eleven A.M."
"Good." He strides toward the door with the ease of a man who's leg is ...just a leg and not some bothersome, defective appendage.
Uh oh. Freeze, physician scum!
"Forget something?" Cameron is standing now, eyes narrowing in a mix of disbelief and worry as she holds his cane out to him.
He says nothing as he takes it from her.
Hell, there is nothing to say.
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He hurries to the pharmacy, renews his scrip, rides the elevator to the sixth floor then heads for his office. The WD40 can in his jacket pocket bumps against his thigh, keeping time with each step he takes. His strides are too even, too easy, which unnerves him so he keeps the limp going, even though the corridor is empty. Right about now he could go for one of those thigh twisting twinges as assurance that this respite from pain is a mere detour from Reality Row. Tomorrow the MRI will tell the tale. After which he'll get fixed up good as new and everything will mosey on back to where it ought to be.
You don't really believe that hogwash, do you?
No. Not for one hot second.
Didn't think so.
The smell, ah, the smell. It's not so much all around him now as inside him. It's part of him. Mort's sachet. The mix of cloying sweetness and putrescence is the dude's way of telling him yeah, I'm still here in Room 27, hangin' out, waiting just for you.
"Maybe," House thinks, "just maybe I won't go back."
You have to go back.
"I don't have to goddamn do anything."
Suddenly the stench is on him, like a hand clamped over his face, a fist digging into his throat. He stumbles back into the door to his office, then lurches forward, coughing, sputtering, eyes tearing from the force of the 'attack'.
"Alright." His breath rasps and tears inside his chest. "You fucking win."
There is movement in his office. A shadow shifts beyond the vertical blinds. House hangs back, his hand drifting over the doorknob. His fingers tremble as they grasp it and...twist. The door swings open. It shouldn't. He's pretty sure he locked it earlier. But here he is, already in the room.
Over in the corner something or someone moves toward him with quick, assured strides. He cringes, grasping his cane firmly with both hands, holding it across his chest like a shield.
"House...?"
His grip tightens around the wood, as if he can't believe this is really and truly Wilson emerging from the half light.
"House."
"Yeah?"
"You okay?"
His shoulders sag as he lets out a long, relieved breath. "For your information, the electric bill's paid up until the end of June." He jabs a thumb at the switch on the wall. "Cuddy gave us the go ahead to turn on the lights."
"Sorry." Wilson flicks the switch and the overhead fluorescents flicker on. "Just got here myself."
House rubs his brow, removes the WD40 from his pocket and pulls off the cap. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you here?" House kneels, twisting his body so his right elbow leans hard against his right thigh, his left hand stretching into the chair innards. He inclines his head, offering himself a better look underneath, and begins to apply the lubricant to the chair's springs and joints.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
"You're oiling your chair." Wilson moves next to House then hunkers down to observe his handiwork. "I can do that for you."
"Why? I'm doing a terrific job."
"Your leg must hurt."
"It doesn't." His right arm presses harder on his thigh as he works, the discomfort factor nearly zip. A corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly as he savors this respite from pain.
Perks.
"How can it not? Just look at you."
The rich distinctive scents of the WD40 and Wilson's Obsession cologne are comforting but they still can't mask eau de Mort.
After one final application of the lubricant, House emerges from under the chair, drops the half full can on his desk and slaps his hands together. "Done."
"Your leg doesn't hurt after all that?"
"No." House seats himself in his chair, rocks experimentally and smiles at the squeak free experience. "Did you come here to bug me?"
"No, I came here first to apologize for this afternoon."
"What happened this afternoon?"
"We spoke," Wilson says. "on the balcony. Remember? I kind of blew you off."
"Ah, yes." House pouts. "You hurt me to the quick. I want compensation. Fifty dollars a month for the next five years..."
Wilson paces the length of the desk. Stops. Paces some more. "The woman's husband just died. She was distraught. The son was just...overwrought."
House arches a brow. "Just do what I do. Open the Yellow Pages to 'Funeral Directors'. Help the Distraughts choose one in the most ghetto part of town. They're cheaper there. Plus they send you off with some bitchin' tunes. None of that weepy dirge crap." He smirks. "Those Distraughts'll be out of your office before you can say 'grits and barbecue'.
Wilson shakes his head, lifts his hands. "I don't know why I bother." But there is that hint of a smile he tries vainly to quell.
"Oh, laugh," House rocks up and back. "Enjoy life."
Wilson does, a little, before setting his hands on his hips again. "I'm worried about you."
"Why?"
"Because...you've been acting...stranger than usual-babbling to yourself in corridors, sobbing in stairwells...smelling phantom smells, plus...your thigh should be killing you about now."
Annoyance flicks its little fingers. "Who made you hall monitor this week? Or are you hosting that new hip reality show, "How Low Can Greg Go?"
Wilson seats himself on the corner of the desk. "Despite what you may think, House, people do care about you. They're just too intimidated to tell you, so they come to me."
"Great. You know about my misadventures. And now I know you know about them." He checks his watch. "Isn't it time you went home?"
Wilson leans forward. "Why are you in such a rush to get rid of me?"
"I'm not in a rush." House raises one arm to indicate the room. "Set up shop here. I'll wear a wire. You bring in the surveillance stuff. Then you can keep track of my every move without your cronies reporting in every hour."
Wilson sighs. "Tell me what's going on with you."
House closes his eyes, savoring the silence. "I wish the hell I knew."
"Foreman schedule the MRI?"
"Tomorrow morning." House nods, eyes still closed.
"I heard...you were crying on the stairs."
He opens his eyes and surveys his bookshelves, his journals, his PC, his stack of video games. "I was afraid."
"Of-?"
House shoots him a look. "It's pretty obvious..."
"Look, if it's a tumor, the chances are good it's operable..."
"You don't know that. You can't know that. Stop placating me. I'm not one of your patients or a daddy to some cancer kid." He drums his fingers on the desk. "Your comment is a perfect example of why people hate doctors."
"Thanks."
"I'm going to see flatliner, then I'm going home."
"You want company?"
"No." House shakes his head slowly. "No." He stands, this time remembering his cane as he heads for the door.
"I'll call you later," Wilson yells after him, which causes House to stop in his tracks and turn around. For a moment the men stare at one another.
What would he think if you told him? Time was you could tell Wilson anything.
House looks away first, hunching his shoulders as he continues his trip down the corridor.
But not this.
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He probably wouldn't have noticed the flier had it been posted anywhere else in the building. But taped to the wall by the elevators it seems out of place, like it's been displayed there purposely for him to see. He presses the 'down' button and reads the notice, studies the photo below the print, reads the notice again. The elevator arrives. He doesn't move to board it. The passengers shift and murmur, waiting. Still, he doesn't move. His gaze is intent on the flier. The doors slide closed. The car bumps and heads down.
PLEASE HELP
He has no idea how long he's been standing, staring at the notice on the wall. Two minutes? Two hours? The smell of ammonia is starting to get to him. It started out on the faint end of the Smell-O-Gauge but is gradually teetering toward overwhelming. His nostrils flare. He sways a bit. Now there are sounds emanating from...somewhere: squeaky wheels rolling, rolling along, the rattle of a bucket handle, the metallic thunk of wood against metal, then the thwap of a wet mop against linoleum.
Manuel Jueveres, a maintenance worker here at Princeton-Plainsboro for the past two years...
The elevator door opens. Someone gets off, someone gets on. House is transfixed, reading the words over and over and over...
...succumbed to injuries he suffered when two containers of lye accidentally spilled on him and two of his co-workers. Dominick Rodrigo and Javier Santiago are in serious condition in the burn ward. Manuel passed away on May 5th.
Let's see, May 5th was yesterday, that makes today May 6th. Okay, according my calculations, this means that little "Madre del Dios" chat you had with Manuel Jueveres this afternoon occurred after the guy was dead. Oh...really...
Donations to help defray the costs of Manuel's funeral expenses are being accepted at the first floor reception desk.
...sometimes the mind...
At the bottom is a picture of a smiling Manuel standing next to a pretty dark eyed woman and three little boys. Around Manuel's neck is a wooden cross.
Slosh...slosh...squee...squee. The sounds are louder now; that cart is drawing nearer, the ammonia smell wraps itself around him like a living breathing thing. House swallows hard, slamming his hand once, twice, three times against the elevator's 'down' button.
...plays...tricks.
Around the corner. That's where the sound is. That's where he is. House doesn't think he's up to seeing Manuel again. One heartfelt chat with the dead was enough for one day. Besides, he is off to meet with the guy responsible for Manuel's untimely demise.
The worst part is you don't believe in any of this shit and yet...
He draws his fingers into a tight fist and grunts as he bangs the elevator button. Hard.
...here it is.
The elevator arrives just as the front of Manuel's cart turns the corner.
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House stands outside Room 27, sensing that tug, the pull.
So strong here.
The half full can of WD40 has somehow made it back into his jacket pocket. He doesn't recall putting it there before leaving his office. But he likes the feel of it-its heft, its weight. His fingers wrap themselves around the warm metal. He draws one step, two steps closer to the room, wondering at the calm stealing over him again.
Beyond the door are voices. The chatter is hushed, reverential and he knows it will stop when he enters. If the family and friends of flatliner are in the room, House figures he will have to go through the bother of identifying himself as a physician, fielding questions, whipping out the stethoscope, checking charts and vitals.
For an instant he is struck with the idea that perhaps Mort won't even be in there. Maybe (hopefully) he has disappeared, gone back to the great beyond or wherever the fuck he resides. But the pressure against the back of his neck, the pull on his vitals tells House this is not the case. He suddenly senses an impatience and a disturbing, dangerous anger he doesn't think he wants to mess with.
House pushes open the door and sees a well dressed woman in her fifties, a guy who has to be pushing eighty and a gorgeous woman of twenty five, thirty (who cares?) seated around flatliner's bed. Involved in conversation, they either don't notice him or he has once again been rendered invisible. Despite his trepidation, he can't help but let his eyes drift over the younger woman's perfect form, her dress hitched up just right to show off her shapely thighs, the curve of her calves. She has wonderful breasts...
"There are better things, you know."
House frowns at the interruption, his attention sailing over to the dude floating just above the bed. At first, Mort scowls at him, those remarkable eyes shooting daggers. The obvious message here is 'don't fuck with me'. Fear tightens House's gut, causing him to grip the can in his pocket tighter and give a small nod of comprehension.
Mort seems pleased with the response and rewards House with a smile. "But you're right. She is lovely. Always knew you had taste. Regardless of what anyone says."
It seems the dude still doesn't need his lips or tongue or a voicebox to get his point across. And House finds that, once again, he has been blessed with this unusual talent as well.
"There may be better things, " House thinks/says, slipping behind the young woman. He stares over her head, down her low cut dress into her cleavage. "But it all comes back to sex. It always comes back to sex. Sex and death. Two constants. Add taxes and you have the unholy trio."
The old man says something witty, causing the young woman to throw her head back and let out a long, hearty laugh. House's lips part slightly as he places his fingers inches above her pretty throat.
"If you touch her she'll see you."
"That would be...interesting," Without making contact, he traces the line of her neck down to where her breastbone meets the tops of her lovely breasts. He stops and throws Mort a mischievous look.
"Perks." With a wink and a wave, Mort transports them both...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
...to the jogging park, a block away from the hospital.
The twilight sky is a rainbow of violet hues, with streaks of deep blues, magenta and pastel pink clouds added to the mix.
"Beautiful sky," Mort says.
"Mmm."
They amble down a nearly deserted path along the lakeshore. A lone cyclist and a corpulent, yet determined jogger pass them on their way, both unaware of the presence of the diagnostician and the dude. Sometimes, House thinks, ignorance is definitely bliss.
"Not your thing." Mort indicates the sky with a tilt of his head.
"No."
"You like the dark. Your idea of a good time? Mort snaps his fingers, stealing a look at his companion. "Playing jazz standards on your piano at midnight and getting quietly blitzed on Jim Beam."
House shrugs. "Something like that."
Mort stops in his tracks. House notices how his tail flicks and waves, as if following the lead of the gentle wind blowing off the lake.
"Give me your cane, Doctor."
House tosses it and Mort raises his arm to make the one handed catch.
"Let's jog, baby," the dude croons.
They start off at an easy pace. The feel of the ground falling away beneath each sturdy footfall makes House somewhat giddy. He takes a chance, speeds it up a bit. It feels good. Too good. The lake and trees rush by in a green and blue blur. He throws his head back, the wind riffles his hair, tickles his cheeks, cools his temples. It's been almost a year since he's had a run. After the Ketamine treatment he was able to do eight miles. But that pain free existence didn't last more than a few weeks. Neither would this.
Enjoy it while you can.
He should be huffing and puffing, gasping for air by this time. But no, his respiration is as steady as his heartbeat.
Interesting.
Gradually, he slows to a light jog and heads for the picnic table beneath the shade of an elm tree. When he visits this place, which is a rarity these days, this is where he comes.
"Feel good?" Mort slides in next to House on the bench.
House folds his hands and bumps them against the wood. "Yes, unfortunately."
"Unfortunately?"
"I've found that there's always a tradeoff to being pain free," House tells him. "The pills allows me to function but one day my liver's going to cave because of them. Now you're going to make me some kind of offer" He pauses, drums his fingers on the table. "Can't even imagine what it is. But if it's going to rid me of pain and put me under your thumb, I'm not so sure I want to hear it."
"You think too much."
"That's what gets me the big bucks."
Their laughter mingles. It is comfortable, companionable.
Mort leans his chin against his palm. "I guess I've complicated things for you today, haven't I?"
"Oh...just a little."
"Let me preface what I'm going to offer you by saying I don't view you as an adversary."
"Why would you?"
"Well, you save lives, I take them."
"It's the natural order of things." House glances at him. "I can only delay the inevitable. Eventually you'll come out the winner."
"You've been close to dying before."
"Yep."
"Your infarction, the gunshot wounds." Mort's tone softens. "I do look familiar, don't I?"
"Yep."
"We met. Had quite an interesting visit."
"It was so utterly awesome I can't even remember it," House smirks.
"No. I guess you wouldn't." Mort stares at the darkening sky. "But you impressed me."
House shakes his head, shrugs. "That's really too bad."
"Why's that?"
"If I'd bored you, you wouldn't be up my ass now."
Mort chuckles and claps his hands. "If you bored me, you'd be dead, off somewhere with the rest of the rabble. No, I wanted you here so I could watch you, study you. You amuse me. You interest me."
"Wow, I am really flattered. So when did we have this chat?"
"You know." Mort teases.
House bows his head, sighs, suddenly weary. "I already told you-"
"Espresso," says Mort with a knowing grin.
And suddenly he remembers. Nursing espressos, they sit across from one another at the small round table at a pleasant outdoor bistro. Their chatter is easy, amiable. They speak about life, death and the fleeting nature of time. The table is covered with a checkered tablecloth. House finds that his cup fits perfectly inside a black square...
"You remember now?" Mort's face is very close to his. Those white teeth gleam, those green eyes are glowing, luminescent.
House winces and rubs at the goosebumps prickling the back of his neck.
"I'd been watching you long before that meeting. You, just...intrigued me. You've got an old soul, you know."
"I could have guessed."
"I was eager to meet with you, just waiting for the right time. When you were put in a chemically induced coma after your infarction, that was when I made my move." The corners of his lips twitch. "I took you for awhile."
"Woah, I'm flattered." Stretching his legs, House waits for the twinge that doesn't come. " And now you've taken time out from your busy schedule to find me again."
"Boredom makes me to do...unusual things," he says. "And I have become infused with ennui."
"Oh, but how can you be bored, Mort?" House's eyes widen, his tone bites. "You have so much to do, fighting off the efforts of great medical minds, causing fatal accidents involving maintenance workers and cleaning solutions."
"I get bored because I rarely do my own legwork, and the day to day drudge work has grown dull." He shrugs. "You know as well as I do there are always minions around to do the menial stuff.""
"So taking lives is grunt work?"
"The actual taking is easy." Mort tells him. "The who, when, where and why is the challenge and requires some imagination. But even that can get tiresome ." He smiles gently as if discussing the warm spring breeze. "Today was just my 'making up for lost time' day, while I was waiting for you."
"So you decided to do away with four people and cause havoc around the hospital to bide your time?"
"'Do away' is such a coarse term." Mort taps his fingers together. "I prefer to say I sent them around the bend."
"Cute."
Mort leans forward, his feet rustling the grass beneath the table. "Now I came up with this idea...which I know will benefit you as much as it will me. For a long time I've tried to reach you, to show you, but your mind is always going, going, going like some infuriating, unstoppable machine. Even when you sleep you manage to shut me out." The green eyes darken to a muddy hazel. "So decided I would have to leave my work in the hands of my minions and make this offer in person."
"Gosh." House gawps. "This is just like Publisher's Clearing House. Are you the guy with the balloons or the big check?"
Mort rocks in place as he softly chuckles. "Oh, you are amusing."
Maybe...that's not such a good thing.
"Tonight, Doctor..."
No, definitely not.
"...when you're asleep, you will let me in. You will come with me."
House's stomach clenches. A faint sense of panic pricks the surface of that all encompassing calm.
"You will see what it's like to work alongside me. You'll amuse me. We'll discuss, argue, converse about anything, everything." Resting his warm hand on top of House's, he breathes, "You'll love it."
"I can't."
"You can and you will." Placing his fingers lightly over House's eyes, Mort whispers, "Tonight."