A/N: Thanks for reading.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Special thanks to NaiveEve, beta extraordinaire and most excellent friend!
-6-
Myrna Bromfeld, or Nurse Myrna as she is known to her colleagues, is glad that it's Wednesday. At 7 A.M., two hours from now, her work at the hospital will be done. Bliss. She can then go home, luxuriate in a hot bath for an hour, down a breakfast of Grape Nuts and bananas and sleep, sleep, sleep. She is relatively free: no classes on Wednesdays and no work. That is charisma. But, as usual, she is not completely off the hook. Homework and studying await. She has almost completed work on her Associate of Science in Nursing degree, which will enable her to advance from her current position as a Licensed Practical Nurse to a Registered Nurse. Finals are in two weeks. To attain the goal she has coveted since deciding on a healthcare career at twenty three (eight years ago), is more important to her than anything else.
Now she sits behind Princeton-Plainsboro's first floor reception desk and turns another page in her textbook. Highlighter poised between two fingers, she reads the first paragraph of the chapter on blood work. Murmuring a few pertinent details to herself, she notes a particularly key passage by dragging the highlighter's yellow tip across the text.
A sudden waft of cool air riffles her hair, plays against her cheeks, interrupting her work. Setting her marker in the center of her book, she raises her head and watches a sorry looking soul hobble through the entranceway. The door slides closed behind him. At first she doesn't recognize him; his shoulders sag as his body leans hard against his cane, his gaze set grimly on the blue carpet. Beneath a rumpled suit jacket his shirt hangs over his belt like a crumpled relic. The shirt is a mass of wrinkles; two of its buttons are undone. His stubble is one day shy of being a beard; his graying brown hair sticks out in tufts. He reminds Myrna of one of the street people who occasionally tries to take shelter here for the night. It is only when he stumbles back into a seat by the window that she places him.
"Dr. House?"
His brow creases as he lifts his gaze toward her. "Halloo, Myrna."
Rumors fly. Tales of misery and hitting bottom travel faster than cute puppy stories and reports of good deeds done. There have been whispers, stories making the rounds-bits of chatter about his erratic behavior, a brain scan scheduled for later this morning. One of the CNA's claims she saw him sobbing in the second floor stairwell yesterday.
He is an enigma, an intriguing man. Myrna knows him more by his reputation than from bumping into him in the cafeteria or dealing with him in a professional capacity. Some of the nurses are intimidated by his arrogance, his gruffness. But he doesn't seem threatening now, looking more like some poor bastard who needs a shower and a good night's rest. But...what does she know? She doesn't see him much. For one thing their work hours are polar opposites, literally day and night.
But on occasion he'll saunter in early, coffee cup in hand, pack slung over his shoulder and start a conversation with her. She's pretty good on the upswing, rolling right along with his quirky wit. Perhaps that's why he bothers. But he doesn't seem so 'on' this morning. She observes him in quick, covert glances as he stares off into space, tapping the tip of his cane against his chair leg. She can't help wishing he looked better. When he runs a hand through his hair she notices the tremor in his fingers.
He seems troubled, ill, haunted.
"It's kind of early for you to be out and about," she says, tossing him a smile, keeping her tone light.
At first she thinks he hasn't heard her. He blinks at that spot he has been focused on for the past few moments and then drags his gaze to meet hers again. "Couldn't sleep."
"Sorry to hear it. Anything I can do?"
A corner of his mouth tugs up before settling back into place just as quickly. She clears her throat, rolls the highlighter between her fingers. A break would be nice. She could call for Nurse Randy to relieve her so she can get some tea, take a pee. But...no, she can't. House's eyes hold her. Like a firm hand on her shoulder, they keep her in her chair.
"Yes," he says.
"Oookay." The affirmative was not the response she was hoping for.
He rises slowly, wincing. She can see how much he depends on that cane; his knuckles are white around its handle as he bears into it, lines etch deeper into his face and around his eyes from the effort of his movements, his shuffling approach. His shoulders are hunched; they probably ache, stiff from a night of tossing and turning as he searched in vain for sleep.
He stops at the desk, digs into his pocket and brings out his wallet from which he plucks a fifty. "Here," he says, waving the bill at her.
"What's this?" Myrna frowns; her two middle fingers brush the money..
"For Manuel...his family."
"Ah, the collection." She brightens, takes the fifty and tucks it into a large manila envelope. "That's very generous, Doctor."
He grunts and gestures at her book with a languid wave of his finger. "What are you doing?"
"Studying." She forces her head down, away from those eyes. "I've got finals in a couple of weeks."
"You want to be an RN?"
"Yes." She meets his gaze again. "I do."
"The RN's here are bitches. They think they own the place." He favors her with a tilt of his chin. "You gonna be like that?"
"A bitch?" She laughs, sniffles, reaches for a tissue to dab her nose. Allergies. "Not me."
"Good." His eyes take a jaunt around her desk before settling back on her. "Where are your magazines?"
"What?" For a moment she gets the impression he's going lash out at her for her occasional choice of low grade reading matter.
"Those magazines I see you reading sometimes." His fingers drum against the desk. "People, The Inquirer, Vanity Fair, Details."
"In...my bottom drawer." Patting the drawer in question, she asks, "Looking for some intellectual literary material?"
"I need to get some sleep," he says.
"Reading those should do the trick."
"Will you read to me?"
She gawps at him like he has six ears and a harelip.
"Let me see what you have," His tone is irritation mixed with a smattering of desperation. "Come on, come on." He indicates the drawer with a jerk of his hand.
"Oookay, Doctor."
"Call me House." He quirks that grin again before losing it in the ozone. "All my rowdy friends do."
"I don't think-"
His look is absolutely earnest. "Please."
Myrna opens the drawer, lifts out the pile of magazines and pushes them across the desk for him to see.
He gives each one a quick study, scanning the pages, sometimes pausing to read a passage or two. "This one."
"This is what you want me to read you? She removes the magazine from the pile and flips through it. "Us Weekly?"
"Got something against pop culture tabloid crap?"
"No."
"Then get your relief out here and meet me in my office." He starts toward the elevators before adding, "STAT."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
He doesn't bother turning on the lights, finding the shadows and pockets of darkness oddly comforting. Soon, that rosy pink daylight will push its way between the blinds, a symbolic opening to another chapter of this hellish tale. Hopefully he can sneak in a few hours sleep before the strangeness returns.
Maybe it wasn't his best idea to ask Myrna to help him out. No sense ruining another innocent bystander's day.
But, hey, you're a selfish bastard.
It was so easy to persuade her to help. Sometimes all he has to do is simply...ask to achieve exactly what he wants. Maybe it is his manner, his delivery, his rough hewn charm or bum leg that does the trick. And then there is always that intimidation factor, which in some cases is the most effective way to go. Persuading people by chewing them up and spitting them out works incredibly well on most days, and it can be oodles of fun too. Regardless, he doesn't get told 'no' very often. And this morning he needs the security of another person with him, yakking away about inane stuff, while he dozes off.
What about your pal Mort?
Dude's laying low for awhile. House feels it, as one would sense the time of day or the presence of an animal in the brush.
What a bunch of hokum. Have you actually fallen for this? Mort could be the product of a nasty old tumor or a glitch in the wiring of those crusty circuits of yours. Puh-leeze, tell me you don't believe this crap.
No. Of course he doesn't. He does not. Does. Not.
Behind him there is a soft knock on the door.
"Come in."
The door clicks opens as he settles back in his Eames chair and stretches his legs out onto its footrest. Myrna steps softly into his field of vision. He smiles up at her. Her eyes are filled with questions she would love to ask but he is certain she won't.
"Hello."
"You know," she says, her words tumbling out, "you could just play the radio or your discs." She points to the headphones and CD player by his desk. "I would think that would be more helpful than listening to me rattle off facts about Tom Cruise's latest escapades."
"Sometimes one needs flesh and blood, the human element," He folds his hands across his chest and closes his eyes. "to keep the bad guys away."
"Bad guys?"
He gives her a look. "I think it's amazing how much press a horse's ass like Tom Cruise gets. Don't you?"
She squints at the magazine in the half light. "He was good in Top Gun."
"That's a girly movie, as are most of his films." House smirks. "Don't tell me you're a fan?"
"What if I am?"
"Don't let the pretty face fool you. He probably sucks in bed."
Setting one hand on her hip, Myrna returns his smirk. "And how would you know that?"
"Friends in high places." His eyes close again as he lowers his voice. "Read to me."
"There's no light in here."
"Turn on the lamp by the window. There's a chair right next to it. Sit there." His head tilts to one side. Already he feels himself falling.
Myrna is a decent reader. Her tone is warm and expressive as she regales him with stories of Brangelina, Tom and Katie and all the latest dirt from the Hollywood hills. He drifts off and her voice remains with him, providing the soundtrack to his dreams, keeping him safe. For now.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"House."
A hand grips his upper arm, shaking him gently.
Whozzat?
His stomach lurches, his heart misses a smattering of beats before stuttering back to form. Panic slaps him upside the head and his mouth falls open in response. What begins as a startled cry ends up a strangled croak. He suddenly remembers he is in his office, comfortably settled in his Eames chair. Nearby, Joe Cocker is singing "Cry Me A River." House moans and brings his hand up to cover his face.
"House."
He lets his hand fall to his side and opens his eyes to find Wilson standing over him. Wilson's shirt is white, crisp and new, his tie is tied perfectly, his hair blown dry ju-ust right.
"Yes. You're gorgeous, now get out," House mumbles, letting his eyes drift closed, shutting out the world again.
"House, Foreman's only got the MRI machine for an hour."
"Where's Myrna?"
"She went home a little over three hours ago."
"Why'd she leave?" With some effort, he leans forward and, using two hands, grips his right leg and eases it from the footrest to the floor.
"It's called having a life. You remember what that's like, don't you?"
House scratches his stubble. Then, gripping the side of the chair, he manages to push himself to his feet. "She should have stayed like I asked her to."
"She took off when I got here. As it is, she hung around longer than she should have. Said she was worried about you and kept the music playing when she left so you wouldn't feel alone." Wilson snorts and gives a half shake of his head. "Why do people to care so much about you when you are such an incredible ass?"
"That is a question which shall be etched into the lavatory walls of this establishment upon my demise and be bandied about for eons."
Wilson bites back a smile and hands House his cane. "Let's go."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
House fully expects to have an 'episode' in the MRI chamber. He has a wicked feeling of foreboding, as if moments ago he was sailing on a calm, clear lake but now finds himself sinking into some roiling murky sea. A sudden realization hits him. Wow. He is falling apart, like one of those old jalopies in an ancient Max Fleischer cartoon. First the tires go flat, then the motor crashes through the bottom, then the little things like the radio and the wipers die. It is all going bye-bye. He chortles softly, without a trace of humor. What better place to consider such things than in a cramped, enclosed space-alone and vulnerable?
The noise of the machine, that loud, disruptive banging is trying its best to muddy his thoughts. But he has a decision to make and refuses to allow the noise to intrude. Squeezing his eyes shut, he runs his predicament over and over in his head, listing the facts on his personal white board.
Peduncular Hallucinosis
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Mort is invisible to everyone but him.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
No one noticed the now infamous stench except for himself and Manuel-and Manuel is dead.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Was he hallucinating when spoke with Manuel or had it been a true spectral moment?
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Elvie had no memory of the unusual events that transpired during their 'transaction'.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
He had an extraordinary reprieve from his leg pain.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Mort hadn't made a 'personal' appearance since yesterday afternoon.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
And how about that WD40 can? Was his mind playing tricks? Was he carrying it around, setting it here and there without being aware he was doing so?
Manuel handed it to you. And Manuel's dead.
Just another brick in the wall...
Bangity, bang, bang, bang!
Once the MRI scans are done, he will have to decide whether or not Mort actually exists. If the scans reveal a tumor, his decision will have been made for him and surgery will more than likely take care of the problem. But if there are no masses growing in his head, that will mean the problem is either chemical, psychological...
...or nonr of the above.
Believe or don't believe.
But he doesn't want to go there, doesn't want to think there really is an entity bent on hiring him on as a court jester.
The idea does sound lame when you put it that way.
"Almost done, House." Foreman's voice blares through the speakers. "You okay?"
"Just dandy."
That fetid smell is nearly gone. He is somewhat calmer now; that feeling of foreboding is ebbing away, as if the events of the last twenty four hours were nothing more than pieces of an intense, horrific dream.
He feels...better.
Well looky here. That old jalopy's getting some body work done. Can't promise it's not going to have some dings and creaks and rust spots but it'll get you where you want to go.
Strange. Maybe working out the problem in his head bit by bit, piece by piece, is what he should have been doing all along.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Nothing."
Foreman, House and Wilson are seated before the lighted screen in the diagnostics room. On the screen are six MRI scans of House's brain.
"Nothing there, House," Wilson crosses his arms across his chest.
"I see that."
Foreman asks, "Are you still experiencing phantom smells?"
"Not any more."
"They've gone? Just like that?"
"Yep."
"I'd like to run a few more tests." Foreman jots something on the chart in his lap. "do some blood work..."
"Not today." House's voice is, gruff, weary, He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Tomorrow."
"...and I think you should see Schiller."
House lifts his head and scowls at the mention of the staff psychiatrist. "I don't need that pompous ass putting his slimy feelers inside my head."
"Too late." Wilson says. "I made an appointment for you. Tomorrow morning. 9 A.M."
Pouting like a petulant child, House kicks the toe of his sneaker against the floor. "If I had a tumor I wouldn't have to go."
"A tune-up never hurts."
"You suck."
"You're welcome." Wilson smiles.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This normalcy of the day, the uneventful way it has so far progressed gives House hope. Maybe the creepy, troublesome intrusion on his life has sprouted wings, tucked its tail inside its black skin tight jeans and taken its leave.
Those few hours of sleep helped clear his head. And working through his ordeal on that mental white board gave him a clearer, more rational picture of what was real and what was not. Everything will be explained, he tells himself-explained, diagnosed and boiled down to its essence.
Eventually...
His team presents him with a case, which is the most therapeutic, positive thing he could have hoped for. He stands at the white board, marker in hand, waiting for the trio to burst out with a long list of symptoms and a gaggle of sensible hypotheses.
Instead he gets Cameron gazing at him with those doe-like eyes, which he finds appealing on some days but not now. "So you don't have a tumor?"
He slams his marker on top of the board. "Not relevant."
"You feeling better?" Chase asks.
"Not applicable."
"Come on, House." Foreman gestures at Chase and Cameron. "They just want to know-"
"Then you tell them," House takes a step forward and swats a chair leg with his cane. "on your own damn time."
A small smile crosses Cameron's face. "It's good to see you're feeling better."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The day continues to pass more smoothly than he would have expected. Work keeps his mind busy, steeping him further into blessed normalcy. Seeking out 'normal' was not a game House usually played but today he is an active participant.
After a couple of hours of putting his energies into differential diagnoses, he hands Cameron and Chase blood work assignments and gives Foreman a Lumbar Puncture to do. He then retreats from his team, telling them to present their findings to him in the morning or, if necessary, call him on his cell. This way they will have something to jabber about and hash over besides the Mysterious Land of Gregdom.
He heads to his office, saunters onto the balcony with an actual spring in his step and pokes his head into Wilson's office.
"Yo."
Wilson sets his pen on his papers. "You seem chipper."
"Never better." House slides the door all the way open, then shuts it with a flourish, using the handle of his cane. He smirks proudly as he strolls into the room. After twirling the cane a couple of times, he hooks it over the back of the chair by the desk.
"Cuddy still wants to know if you've come up with any ideas as to why those three people died yesterday."
"Tell her..." Tapping his lower lip with his forefinger, House considers his response. "Tell her I've got nothing she can use."
"Which means...?"
"Which means 'no'."
"Okay...so," Wilson hitches his shoulders, lifts his hands. "the phantom smells-they're gone?"
"They are gone, gone, goodbye." He takes a seat.
"No more crying jags in stairwells?"
"Nope."
Wilson purses his lips, lets out a long breath.
"What?"
"Symptoms like yours don't come and go that quickly. You know that."
"I just know that I feel great."
"Mood swings. Going from the pits to the zenith is one symptom of an impending breakdown or bipolar disorder."
"Boy, you just love throwing ice water on the party, don't you?" House's eyes wander over Wilson's exceptionally tidy desk. He reaches over, lifts up a stack of papers, then slaps it down with a frustrated grunt. "What happened to that candy dish you used to keep here?"
"Obviously I don't have it any more." Wilson wrenches open his bottom drawer, initiates a brief search and comes up with the goods. "Here." He holds out a Tootsie Pop.
House brightens as he snatches the candy from Wilson's hand. "Root beer. Damn good stuff." He tears off the cellophane, tosses it at Wilson then pops the lolly in his mouth.
"Let Foreman run those tests on you tomorrow," Wilson accentuates each word with a jab of his pen. "And make sure you keep that appointment with Schiller."
House twirls his tongue around the candy. "Your problem is that you worry too much."
"Let me clue you into something," Wilson enunciates slowly and carefully as if speaking to a small child. "Friends help friends. Friends worry about friends."
"And friends can be major pains in the butts." He jabs the lolly at Wilson. "I will get the exam. I will talk to Schiller the Ass. So don't you worry your tousled brown haired head about it no mo'."
"Good."
"How about a beer later?"
Wilson laces his fingers. "Your place?"
"No..." He is suddenly...
...cold as a graveyard at midnight...
"You okay?" Wilson leans forward, cocks his head, wearing the face he usually reserves for his most needful patients. "You're shivering."
"No. I'm not." House averts his gaze as he rubs his hands together. "So how about that beer?"
"Sure." Wilson's voice is soft. "Sure."
"O'Reilly's at seven?"
"Sounds good."
House shoves the Tootsie Pop in his mouth, then pushes against his cane for leverage as he rises to his feet.
The thing is, Wilson knows you too damn well. He knows about the tight ball of anxiety in your gut that refuses to take a hike. How would it be to live without that kind of scrutiny-to not have a friend blessed with that amount of irksome insight?
House doesn't feel like guessing and refuses to mull it over. What he wants is to take his leave. So he sets himself in motion, traipsing across the balcony to his office. Placing his fingers over the handle, he is about to slide his door open when he notices the sky: violet hues, pink and magenta clouds drifting. Drifting.
Beautiful...
The chills begin at his shoulders, conjoin at the top of his spine and take a joyride down his back.
Heck. He lets out a tremulous breath. Heck. He really thought he was getting better.
Well, old man, looks like you just may have thought wrong.