A/N: I know, I know. This is a very strange House story so, if you've read this far, thanks for sticking with it. As always, concrits and comments are welcome.
Please note: This chapter is rated 'M'.
Extra special thanks to my beta NaiveEve!
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
-5-
He rocks. Up and back. Up and back.
Medical books and journals are strewn across his desk, like someone had rushed in, tossed them there, then skedaddled. Post-It Notes poke from between pages like pink, orange and yellow tongues: marked chapters and highlighted quotations concern the topics of the day, kiddies: neurological dysfunctions and brain anomalies.
Currently, House is engrossed in reading a wordy yet informative article in The Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery and Psychiatry with Practical Neurology concerning a fifty two year old woman who enjoyed long, complex discussions with elves. The elves visited her home every afternoon at precisely 3:02. She would serve them tea and cookies, then lead them to the piano where they would all sing railroad songs. After a few weeks of this unusual behavior, her husband brought her to a neurologist. An MRI revealed a tumor compressing the pons, the area of the brainstem that manages sensory stimuli. She was diagnosed with Peduncular Hallucinosis and, after removal of the benign tumor, she was just spiffy again. Although she did miss the elves.
Wow, you just bet you're on the right track now, don't you?
He hopes so. It is easy to tell himself that Mort's visitations are being brought about by a physical anomaly, and that there must be a solid, scientific reason for these symptoms, these hallucinations.
Ah, yes, of course they are hallucinations. And the moon is made of cheddar cheese. And cats steal the breath of sleeping babies. Shall I go on?
Up and back, up and back. His chair no longer squeaks, a fact he now finds extremely disconcerting. The squeak was eradicated by the WD40. The WD40 was given to him by a dead man.
Impossible? Yeah, well, you still believe the unbelievable, don't you? Despite all the fancy say-so's in your books, you are well aware that Mort the Death Dude is coming for you at beddy-by time. You can run but you cannot hide...
The feeling hasn't left him. That easy yet solid pressure of Mort's hand over his eyes is less like memory and more like an essence a spirit left behind.
Oh...really.
House can still feel those fingers, their touch benevolent the thumb and pinky pressing against either temple, three middle fingers spreading across the center of his brow. There was a gentle strength in that touch, an undeniable power. Once more, it made him feel protected...like nothing could ever hurt him again. Brushing his own hand across his brow, he finds it impossible to deny how much he liked it.
Laughter wafts through his mind like today's balmy breeze. No. You loved it...
But he also can't deny that this day sucks-worse than any he's lived through since the afternoon he was shot. He would gladly welcome back the annoying squeal of his chair if it would buy him some peace of mind. Slapping closed the journal, he knows the chances of that happening are less than slim.
The clock is ticking down. Despite assuring himself that all will be well tomorrow, anxiety and fear have returned in full force, vicious and strong, wielding stakes and baring blood tinged fangs. He inhales deeply, attempts to squash them. Linking his fingers, running his tongue across his dry lips, House gazes around his office at all the things that make this room uniquely 'his'. But there is no sense of comfort here, nothing to assure him he isn't headed off on some otherworldly journey in a few hours, never to return.
Oh, stop with the dramatics. What about Peduncular Hallucinosis?
He shakes his head and thinks, "Yeah, what about it?"
Could be what you got.
"Could be."
Could be Schizophrenia (although at your age it would be pretty rare), could be Dysomia...
But then...of course...he doesn't have to go. His fingers grasp the edge of the desk as the idea strikes him. It is possible to block Dude Death Guy out. House had unknowingly done it before. Dude had told him so. Sooo, if it worked before, well, hey, why couldn't it work again? The thought is subversive; if it doesn't pan out, the attempt will get him into deep shit. He swallows hard, ducks his head, preparing for the onslaught of pain, that now familiar putrescence that will knock him back, teach him a thing or two.
Nothing. Well, okay, not really nothing. There is still that low grade version of the stench that blends easily into the background.
(it's inside you...)
Slowly, he eases his grip, noticing and savoring the sudden intensifying ache in his thigh. He rubs his ruined leg slowly, lovingly. How long had it been since he'd fraternized with his old pal V?
"Maybe," he thinks. "Maybe all this nonsense will just...stop now."
Giddy with relief, he digs into his trouser pocket for the nearly forgotten stash of Vicodin. He flips the cap off the bottle, shakes two of the lovelies onto his palm and downs them.
Letting out a long sigh, he sits and waits for the drug to take effect, and it sure doesn't take long. Soon steeped in that familiar floaty haze, he gives a silent 'yahoo' that normalcy has returned. The pain in his thigh obediently wanes; the passel of sharp, deep stabs becomes a chorus of weak, slow throbs. He gathers his books and journals together, setting them in neat piles before him, running his fingers in lazy waves down the spines, along the glossy periodical covers.
He smiles,
so happy,
picks up his phone and presses the speed dial button. In a moment he connects with Wilson's cell.
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"I thought you said you didn't want company."
Wilson's is pissed. His irritation is such that House wouldn't be surprised to see tiny sparks spitting from the handset from the force of it.
"I did?"
"Yes. I distinctly remember you saying you were off to see flatliner, then you were going home."
House could almost see Wilson shirk his shoulders in exasperation and give that annoyed little duck of his chin. "I just thought you might want to go for a beer." He scraped his thumbnail against the polished wood of his desk, hoping Wilson would cave. Home was not a place House cared to go just yet.
"I would have," Wilson tells him, "but when you said you were busy I called Tanya. She's at the supermarket right now, shopping for dinner-"
Tanya from Pediatrics was Wilson's latest 'fun frau'. Typical of most of the oncologist's conquests, she was tall, blonde, blessed with good hips, nice breasts, and a hearty dislike of House.
"You're with her now, aren't you?" House could just about hear the muzak, the tinny "shoppers' special" announcements being broadcast over the store's loudspeakers.
A sigh. "Does it matter?"
"Ohhh, of course not."
In a sotto voice Wilson says, "I could tell her something came up, if you really need-"
"No, no, no, no, no. Puh-leeze go about your business and don't worry about me." House saunters over to his bookshelf and twirls his cane like a baton. "I'll just pick up a six pack on my way home...and I'll be all set."
There is a pensive pause, then a bit of muffled conversation before Wilson asks, "How are you?"
"Groovy."
"How's your leg?"
"It aches."
"Oh," Silence, then,. "Anything I can-"
"You'd better get your ass in gear," House says. "Tanya's probably picking out canned tomatoes, the cheap kind. And you know how you hate those god-awful store brands."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Gotta go. Beer to buy, hookers to ravage."
"House..."
He breaks the connection, brings up his 'contacts' list, and presses the setting marked 'Female Persuasion'. Perhaps tonight is not the night for this, agitation has returned, slinging itself over his shoulders like two ten ton weights. But he needs to have someone with him, just for awhile. Maybe a pleasant diversion will enable him to oust the thought of Mort and the silly ol' threat of abduction from his mind.
The phone burrs twice before being answered by Marie.
"It's short notice, I know," House hangs his head, tamps the rubber tip of his cane against the carpet. "But if you could send someone in an hour..."
As usual, Marie comes through...but not with Paula or Francis, his women of choice. They are previously engaged. Does he have a preference? A type, size, age?
"You know what I like, Marie." His voice is gruff, tinged with impatience. "Surprise me."
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He looks at their bodies, not their eyes.
When they attempt small talk, he keeps his head down and quiets them with a word or a simple gesture. Paula and Francis know his ways and have long ceased doing anything but getting him erect, allowing him to put his hands against their tight bellies, their writhing backsides, their heavy, swaying breasts, and riding him until he comes.
Chatting with these women, forming some half-assed intellectual bond, would be senseless and serve only to put him in a foul mood. It is not what he pays them for. But despite his arrogance, his anti-social 'leave me alone' demeanor, he does crave intimacy. With Stacy, he enjoyed the closeness, found the relationship exhilarating, satisfying (though rarely did he put these feelings into words) when things were going well. But this is not what he wants from Paula, Francis or the beautiful young woman undressing before him. With them, simplicity is the key. Their relationship requires no special effort to make it work. He doesn't have to win them over, get in good with their parents, their friends, take them to dinner, woo them. All he has to do is have his orgasm, pay up and go to sleep.
Well now, you might want to think about pulling an all nighter tonight, son.
And if along the way they happen to enjoy his ministrations, if their moans, groans and sighs are for real, all the better. But it's not what he pays them for.
He lies naked on his bed, head propped up by two pillows, hands behind his head, cock flaccid but not for long. He feels the warmth, the stir, as Elvie (yes, she did mention her name, and yes, he did remember it as he remembers everything) joins him. Elvie is Korean (she told him that too), her long black hair has subtle reddish highlights, her mouth is generous and he wouldn't mind kissing it. He imagines running his tongue along her teeth, then pushing in deeper, seeking, exploring. The thought makes him hard. He likes kissing. But there is a rule about that.
That...is a no-no.
Ah, well, there are other things they can do...they will do.
Elvie has obviously been given a crash course in the Greg House School of Ruined Legs, since she takes special care when mounting him and manages to avoid putting pressure on his thigh. With an expert's grace, she guides his now very attentive member inside of her. She is wet. He marvels at her arousal. He hasn't done a thing to get her there.
All in a day's work, Doc.
Lifting his hands, he cups her breasts, his thumbs playing lightly across her nipples. She begins to move, grinding against him in slow, practiced circles. His heart pounds, his breath quickens. She is intuitive, amazingly so, anticipating how much he can take before surrendering to his climax. She hitches and bucks, then slows her movements, pulling the reins, allowing the pleasure to build more...and more. He groans, enjoying her musky scent, rotating his hips now, loving how deeply he is submerged inside all that molten sweetness.
Closing his eyes, it is all sensation. It is all he needs, the feel of her breasts, the heat, the smell of her sweat, her excitement, how incredibly hard he is inside her.
She's good. Damn she's good. She's prolonging it, not letting him come. The feeling is...extraordinary.
He cries out and opens his eyes to find...the ceiling is gone, the room is gone. In their place is a twilight sky painted violet, embellished with streaks of deep blues and shreds of pastel pink clouds. It is the jogger park sky.
Beautiful sky...
No.
Elvie throws her head back, exposing that smooth, long neck. She thrusts out her breasts, like one of those Amazonian women in the National Geographic magazines House used to ogle when he was twelve. Her hips continue to move, swaying to some sensual inner symphony meant only for her. She is moaning, really moaning, not the fake 'oh, you make me come just looking at you' hooker moan she was doing so well-
before you were so rudely interrupted.
Then he feels it: a breath down his cheek, across the back of his neck, down his spine. It is warm...and putrid. This is so bad. Fear lashes at him, which for some reason pushes his excitement up a notch, causing him to groan with pleasure...and dread.
Get...out.
Laughter howls like a roiling riotous tornado, and it is not just in his ears. It is everywhere, bouncing off the clouds and ricocheting around the room that is no longer a room.
Elvie is absolutely gone. As she mumbles, cries and writhes, her eyes roll back in her head, the whites exposed as her lids flutter. Helpless within his own globe of pleasure, House can't help her. His fists clench and unclench as his hips writhe, bringing him closer and closer to the inevitable...
Gasping, unable to resist, he sinks into a thick mire of overload. Someone's hands are all over him now, caressing his torso, his face, the nape of his neck, tickling the hair just above his ears, running lightly up and down his thighs as Elvie, that bewitching helpmate, pumps away, keeping the rhythm strong.
Almost there.
The sky dims to a bruised purple, a single tear runs down his cheek...
...as he trembles, grunts and explodes, his fingers digging into Elvie's hips as she too shudders, squeals and finally surrenders.
Again, again and again.
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House lies on his left side, blanket pulled up to the middle of back. His face is half buried in the pillows, arms limp, palms facing up, like some wounded warrior lifted off the battlefield and shoved into triage. His breath rasps shallow and coarse in his chest. Through a heavy lidded right eye he watches Elvie dress.
"Shitty isn't it?" he murmurs.
She gives him a look as she shrugs on her blouse
"The smell-that was bad. Should have warned you..."
Her brow creases as she pouts.
"And how about those hands? Did you feel 'em too?" His voice is too loud and just a teeny bit frantic. "That was Mort. Would have introduced you properly if he let me. A real charmer..."
She shakes her head slowly.
Shut up. She has no idea what you're babbling about.
"The sky was pretty though. You like the colors...?"
The incomprehension in her eyes gives way to distrust and fear.
Anger creeps up on him like a cat in the dark. This...call girl, hooker or whatever other nicety can be applied to a whore, is the only one who can confirm he is not sick and not totally out of his mind. But for some reason she has forgotten what happened between them only moments ago.
Hey, maybe it didn't happen like that at all or...
...someone crept into her head and made it all go bye bye.
"Do you know what I've been going through all fuckin' day?" He can't help blurt it out.
That's not helping. The girl thinks you are insane.
Grabbing her purse and jacket from the chair by the door, Elvie mutters heatedly in Korean, then pauses to look at him again. This time her expression is somewhat sympathetic but that wide eyed, 'deer in the headlights' fear remains.
"Sorry."
She turns to leave.
"Your money," he rasps.
She stops and faces him again.
"It's under that yellow can on the dresser." The WD40 can he could have sworn he had left in his office, now sits atop the hundred dollar bill meant for Elvie.
She moves cautiously, deliberately as if navigating a path through a minefield. After plucking the bill from under the can, she rushes from his room and takes her leave.
House hears the click of the front door as it closes. He shuts his eyes, alone again.
"Sorry," he whispers, feeling the first tentative brushstrokes of sleep touch him.
His shoulders relax as his mouth goes slack, his breathing deepens. The smell, that now familiar stench-so much a part of everything-is everywhere, cradling him, enveloping him. Warmth. Someone, somewhere approves. House can sense triumph, a euphoric cry, then a slow seductive call.
Come along, come along...
The rush of wind in his head tells him he is on his way to being very, very gone.
Not a lot of time left, your highness.
He feels himself being pulled along, flowing, floating on an unrelenting stream. Around him? Nothing. Whites, grays, hints of cloudy murk. It's nice, though. He doesn't mind it. Doesn't have to think. It's as if he's downed about a dozen Vicodin after shooting a syringe full of Morphine into his arm.
Not much time. Think about stuff. Fill your mind with...anything but this.
If he's going to combat this euphoria it has to be now. But the task will be Herculean, like pushing a truck up Mount Rushmore.
Picture yourself back in your room. Focus...focus. Stop enjoying this so much! There are two pillows under your head. Feel them, make them real.
His hand. Concentrate. Fingers, one, two, three, four five. He flexes them, then reaches beyond the white mire to clench cotton, down filled softness, solidity.
Good. Now...you're thirsty, parched. Get your lazy ass out of that bed and have a drink. Remember the beer you bought? Should be nice and cold by now. Second shelf in the fridge...picture it.
He forces himself to focus on the contents of his nearly empty fridge: the butter, eggs, three bagels, leftover chicken sandwich...and the beer. The thought of how much he wants it, how good the brew will feel trickling down his gullet pulls reality closer. He runs his tongue over his upper lip. The tickle of stubble is real, solid, true. The whiteness dissipates, the movement slows. Someone, somewhere shouts an epithet, a warning, a threat.
Doesn't matter. It. Doesn't. Matter.
With a gasp, he blinks his eyes open and crushes his pillows to his chest.
Alright, alright, you just might be okay. For now.
After a few moments, when his heartbeat slows and sanity returns to clap him on the back, he takes a chance and allows his mind to turn his thoughts over and over.
What next, genius?
Okay. First, he needs to get out of bed, away from the rumpled sheets and the smell of sex and sweat. It's bad enough having eau de Mort continuing to circle over Gregland International. He doesn't need the others joining in.
Right. His lower back sends up a complaint as he grunts and pushes himself to a sitting position. With some effort, he shifts his body around, places his left foot on the floor, then the demon right and separates his jeans, boxers and t-shirt from of the tangle of bedding.
Phew! Okay, up and at 'em, killer
He stands, shivering as he pulls on his underwear, t-shirt and jeans. His body aches but the floor feels solid and right beneath his feet as he makes his way slowly, sans cane, to the kitchen. He opens the fridge, pulls out a can of beer and holds it to his brow. The aluminum, moist with condensation, cools his burning skin. He savors the feeling, rolling the can along his temples, his cheeks, his neck, and can't help but wonder how the hell this is all going to end.