-2-
"Adios"
In his dream, he is seated with his hands folded in his lap. He is enjoying the ride, blissfully unaware of what is to follow. Still, the other part of his mind, the part that constantly surveys and observes and critiques, knows what is to come.
The awareness, this knowing, is why dreams are so cool.
Behind him, there is a big noise, an explosion that hurts his ears and turns the world into a kaleidoscopic stew. He is thrust forward like a football hurled across Giants Stadium, flying, soaring. Gone, gone...goodbye. It is not unpleasant. Nothing hurts. He doesn't feel the pain when he crash lands and the metal pole impales his (bad) thigh. It's all interesting. So is the fact that his kidneys are toast and he will very soon succumb to Amantadine poisoning. In his dream he knows this. He knows everything.
You shouldn't have taken those pills, should have let that cold run its course, his fellow passengers lament as one, swirling over, up and around him. Boy, ain't life a bitch? They wear white robes over their jeans and t-shirts, dress shirts and khakis. As they serenade him, beads of scarlet fall like spring rain from their mouths, pattering gently against his motionless, battered form.
In the distance, sirens wail. Their whining goes on and on but those emergency vehicles never seem to get any closer.
Then, just like in the movies, the scene shifts...
Amber and Wilson stand over him in the ICU as he feels his vitals shut down, life support clicks, whirs...then stops. Liver and kidneys go bye, bye. Heartbeat slows...ba dump...ba...dump.
It's not so bad, he thinks from the outside looking in. Amber is sobbing. Wilson tells her not to because everything is good.
Stay with me...
Now there are no more choices to make, no more troublesome intrusions to interrupt the flow of their world...
no more.
"She knows you're here."
He grunts, jerking and flailing, like he is once more in the throes of a deep brain stimulated seizure. But it's just the dream. He knows this. So does Wilson, who observes him calmly from the throne behind his desk. It takes moments, a few deep breaths and a ten count to totally escape the dream. That dream. The one that is as much a part of him as his cane, his Vicodin, and his scar. What will happen when that dream ensnares him for good, when it takes the place of what is? His heart races like the lead car at Indy.
Stop. The voice in his head is commanding yet concerned. Take stock of the situation.
He shifts, winces. The arm of Wilson's sofa has never been much of a pillow. The muscles in the back of his neck have bunched up. His lower spine aches.
"You can either go see her in fifteen minutes or hide out somewhere else," Wilson is not at all sympathetic to House's plight. At least not on the surface. Beneath that cool gaze of derision, there is sympathy and tenderness and empathy. House knows they're there. Like files hidden away in a hard drive, they're simply not as easy to access as they once were.
"You told her." House pushes himself to a sitting position, groaning as he leans forward and holds his head in his hands.
"I didn't have much of a choice."
"You always have a choice," House mutters.
"Not when she catches me in your office with my patient."
"See?" House raises one hand to emphasize his point. "That was your first mistake,"
"What, meeting my patient in your office? I couldn't very well conduct a consult here, Not with you snoring and moaning and--"
"Letting her catch you was your first mistake," House says quietly, gazing at his sneakers. "You used to be an excellent sneak. You've lost your touch..."
"You make everything more difficult than it has to be, House." Wilson shakes his head, shuffles papers that probably didn't need shuffling. "You haven't learned a thing from all the crap you've been through. That's extraordinarily sad."
"I learned it's more fun to take my chances with Cuddy, than stick around and be bombarded with rhetoric from you." He pushes himself off the sofa, snags his cane from where it waits by the bookcase. "You'll be a hardass from now until the next time I get you drunk. At least with Cuddy I can use the old sweet talk to wheedle my way into her good graces. Her thong won't be in a twist for long."
Wilson raises his brows. "You should know better than to assume."
"I never assume." House throws him a weak grin. "I just know."
"You overstepped your bounds this time, telling Mrs. Abramowitz she's going to die."
"It got her to drink up, didn't it?"
"You don't have a clue, do you?" Wilson shakes his head slowly, tapping his pen against his blotter in a staccato rhythm.
"I know she's given a mint of money to the hospital," House says, "I know Cuddy wants to kiss her wrinkled ass."
"So if you knew these things-"
"Read my lips." House's voice is suddenly loud enough to be heard across the hall. "I. Don't. Care."
Wilson scoffs, twiddles the pen between two fingers. "How can you so quickly forget what really counts?"
House pauses by the door. He lowers his head, throws Wilson a look. Suddenly his bravado slips off him like a snake shedding skin.
"Life can change in minutes, House. Seconds." Wilson says. "But you know that."
"If you have a point, make it quick. I have a date with uncertain peril."
Crossing his arms, Wilson leans back in his chair. The victor. "I thought you didn't care."
"I sense there might be fresh teeth marks in my butt by the end of the day. It's better to be prepared for such things." He knocks the tip of his cane against the door jamb. "Tell me what she has in mind."
"Oooh," Wilson chuckles. "Where would the fun be in that?"
"I hate it when you're obtuse. And another thing--you used to enable me a hell of a lot more."
Wilson's loses his grin. "Guess you'll just have to face Cuddy." After checking his watch, he rests his chin on his hand. "She should be back in her office by now."
Something's really wrong this time, House thinks, making his way out the door and down that long, long corridor. This time it might not be so easy to dance around the flames without getting his balls singed in the process.
His presence does not inspire her to put the phone down. She doesn't look up, drop her pen or seem the least bit annoyed. She just goes on like he's not even there. A wisp of hair falls in her eyes. This she tends to, switching the phone from right hand to left to more easily brush back the stray tress. In the process, he meets her eyes. Nothing there. Not anger, not sadness, not a hint that there are fightin' words waiting in the wings.
He leans hard on his cane as butterflies are set free in his gut, traveling from his large intestine to his small. There they flit and flutter, tickling the duodenum, jejunum and ileum until all he can do to ease his consternation is take a seat across from her and wait.
Five minutes tick by before he thinks of doing something wicked. But Cuddy is aware of the limits of his patience. She hangs up the phone the very moment he considers dumping the contents of her pen cup on her desk.
"Why am I here?" he asks. "You're interrupting the flow of my day."
"No I'm not."
"I have a case."
"Not any more. Mrs. Abramowitz wants nothing more to do with you and I can't say I blame her."
"Hmmph," he grunts, only slightly miffed. "Her loss."
Folding her hands on her desk, Cuddy leans forward.
(the better to see those peaks and valleys, my dear)
"As of this moment, you're on vacation."
Stunned, he gapes at her. He was expecting some yelling, a few choice obscenities they might bat back and forth like tennis balls. Not this.
"No, thanks," he says after finding his voice.
"You don't have a choice in the matter," she says in that curt tone that tells him she's not open to any slick, smart barbs in his arsenal he might be readying.
"What's this about?"
"You need a break." Sparks wink and die in her eyes. "It's been a hard year for you."
He rises from the chair. Paces before the desk. One-two-three, one-two-three. After a moment he stops to give her a hard look. "When I want a vacation I'll ask for one."
"The point is, you never will." She points the nub of a pencil at him. "This way, you'll be forced to have some down time. Get some rest."
"I get more than my share here."
"I wish you had indulged yourself in some of that down time instead of harassing Mrs. Abramowitz."
"She's a pain in the ass and you know it. John Lennon's dead and Sadie Abramowitz lives on," he grouses. "Where's the fairness in that?"
"At five-o-clock you are officially out of here for two weeks." Lifting one perfectly plucked brow, she adds, "That is all."
He cocks his head, thinks about it. Two weeks seems like an eternity. He wonders how he might fill that time without succumbing to alcohol poisoning or a monumental case of eye strain from TV overload. The thought of a hooker a day makes him warm and happy for a moment. Then he decides he wouldn't really enjoy those strange, fragrant women traipsing in and out of his apartment each day for a fortnight. Once they're in his bed it's fine, It's the small talk, the bathroom break, the deal making that unnerves him and makes him want reach for the bourbon or the scotch. Or both.
Ambling to the door, he tells her, "You're killing me, you know that."
"It's not my intent. And you know that," she says.
He wants to say 'I hate you'. He truly does.
But for some reason he can't.
Before heading to his office, he makes a stop at the cafeteria to buy a cup of sustenance: coffee, black, heavy on the caffeine, double up the sugar.
He wanders through the halls with his steaming cup, feeling like a Jack in the discard pile of a poker game. A high card that's unwanted and unneeded.
Useless.
(where's the fairness in that?)
When he arrives at his office, Kutner is just leaving. He throws House a guilty, goofy grin, averting his gaze as he tries to make a break for it, to escape to the safety of...somewhere.
"No can do, buckaroo." House bars Kutner's way with his cane. The odd looks he gets from the healthcare professionals and inmates passing by do nothing to distract him from his 'person of interest'.
"Gotta go, House."
"What were you doing in my office?" He could have sworn he locked the door. Kutner must have wheedled the spare set of keys off Foreman.
"I...had something for you."
"Letter bomb?"
"No."
"Anthrax du jour?"
"No!"
"Then why didn't you just give it to me?
Kutner offers him a sheepish look, twisting one heel against the linoleum. "I wasn't sure what kind of mood you'd be in after you got the word."
"So you knew."
"We only just heard," he says. "Cuddy told Foreman, Foreman told-"
"Where is it?" House swigs the remainder of his coffee, glares at the dregs, then thrusts the cup at Kutner, who takes it from him.
"It's...on your desk." Raising one brow, Kutner walks to the door, crumpling the cup as he goes. "I'll show you."
"I don't need you to show me what's on my desk." House nudges him out of the way, shoulders open the door.
"I just wanted to explain-"
"Explain how you and the rest of the fab four are going to get through the next two weeks without me."
Kutner raises one hand slowly. "If you have any questions--
"Go away. Now."
House doesn't like vacations. Their temporary respite from the familiar holds no fascination for him. A Saturday spent at an off track betting parlor or a night at the local pub are sufficient breaks from the norm. His piano, the internet, his journals and TV give him access to what's going on out there. No reason to spend money, time and energy on what he can procure with the click of a button or a turn of a page.
He has experienced enough of the big wide world; it was handed to him from the time he was very young. It's not his fault he's jaded. To most people, traveling the world is exciting and enlightening.
He is not 'most people'.
Growing up a military brat, his world held the constant promise of a 'change of scene'. Today Okinawa, next week Cairo. His friends were other military brats he played ball with for three or six months until it was time to move on again.
He was never one to keep in touch, even though his mother encouraged him to do so. The idea of having Tommy or Herbie or Jed as 'pen pals' was ludicrous. He never held any of them in high regard. Besides, what scintillating prose could he send their way? Yeah, Quantico is hot as a witch's tit this time of year.
No, he never cared for vacations, and was glad when his traveling days were through. When his father retired and the three of them moved to the white picket fence world of Eldridge, Ohio, teenage Greg settled in quickly. He involved himself in high school lacrosse, played in a band, lost his virginity, showed off his smarts, let his hair curl over his collar. Slowly he became a rebel, irritating his teachers, worrying his mother, causing his father to pour on the physical and verbal abuse even more...
He doesn't want to think about this now. So he sits, moves his thumb along the head of his cane and frowns at what Kutner has left on his desk.
"The Road Less Traveled: Premiere Issue!"
The magazine is rife with Post-It notes scrawled in Kutner's swooping hand. ("Read this!" or "You might want to check this out!").
Those pastel colored slips of paper fly every which way as House flips through the pages. Nothing here for him. He has no use for any of it and is about to toss the magazine and the blasted notes into the trash.
The classified section dissuades him. He likes classifieds. Sometimes they're provocative. Sometimes they're amusing. Women seeking women for travel companions.
Sure.
Men searching for travel companions of either sex.
Double your pleasure.
Yes, House enjoys the classifieds. Maybe that's what he'll do: spend two weeks reading classified ads. They're proof that there are still unique, interesting people walking around out there, and the best part will be that he won't have to meet any of them.
"It's Not What You Think"
His eyes land on the ad in the lower right hand corner of the page. He takes in the 800 number, scoffs at the challenge.
"Not many have what it takes to be part of what we do. What we offer is not so much a vacation as a total lifestyle change. But it's not what you might think. You have no idea. You are curious. You will call the number. You will see if you are fit to play the part.
You will not be sorry."
Bullshit, House thinks as he tosses the magazine into the wastebasket. He leans his elbows on his desk, rests his head in his hands and closes his eyes. Music drifts in from somewhere. Brahms. He hums the melody. Third symphony.
When he opens his eyes again, the office is silent. The scent of hospital food makes him wrinkle his nose in distaste. Dinner time at the old homestead. The clock on the wall informs him it's five-fifty. He should have been out of here already. Banished, he thinks, reaching under his desk, letting his hand rifle through the wastebasket. The magazine finds his hand, allows it to be lifted out of its dank metal canister.
It doesn't take long to find the ad...
You will not be sorry.
...to rip it out, tuck in into his jacket pocket before saying adios to this little corner of the world for awhile.