-17-

"Comfort"

At the end of the day all he wants to do is go home. Weariness assaults him like a thug in an alley, beating on him until all he can do is lie on the cold ground and take it.

The day's work was absorbing, challenging but not enough of a distraction to push back the worries that have gathered like sports fans at the deciding game of the World Series. Waiting, watching and wondering.

Unfinished business needs tending to. Rosa's aborted visit needs to be dealt with. Tonight. Not tomorrow. It would be so much nicer to go back home, have a few beers, a burger and let the world drift away until morning.

But those problems will still be around tomorrow, festering like open wounds in need of a good dose of antibiotics.

He turns the key in the ignition, the motor purrs, like it is offering its own brand of comfort. Before he sets off for Rosa's, he pulls his cell from his jacket pocket, glowers at the screen, then tries House's phone. Again. Third time today. When the voicemail responds with its smartass query of "don't you have better things to do to than give me grief?" he almost tosses the thing out the window.

He takes the long way to Rosa's house, bypassing the highway and heading down scenic backroads. It gives him time to think, to consider what he is going to say.

Space is what he needs. Time alone. After Amber died there was always someone around, either to bring him food or engage him in conversation, assuming that normalcy could steer his thoughts away from his grief. He never had the heart to tell them how miserably they had failed.

When Rosa came along, she was an immediate soulmate, someone whose grief matched his own. They never needed to talk to communicate that understanding, which was where the attraction was born.

Of course she is beautiful. But she holds a different beauty from Amber's. Rosa's skin is coffee and cream, where Amber's was milk white. Rosa's hair falls around her face in thick brown curls, Amber's hair was strawberry blonde, fine and smooth as silk.

He can't think about this anymore. It makes his throat clench and his gut ache.

He realizes, as the early autumn's yellows and golds rush by, how unfair he has been to Rosa...and to himself. He should never have let the relationship get to this level. Neither of them are in any position to handle it.

It needs to end; he will have to be the bad guy and do the deed. In some strange way, the thought makes him feel better, like a ten ton weight will soon be lifted and life will go on as usual...

...as soon as House returns.

One down...

Eddie's parents have taken him home. The boy was none the worse for all the prodding and poking he has endured, but his condition has not improved. The fever is sure to return, as will Danny's and Felicia's.

It is only a matter of time before Danny's parents also have that quiet conversation with Dr. Cuddy, then trundle the boy out of there, back home, back to square one.

Eloise is lost. She plies Felicia with books and videos, plays Chutes and Ladders with her on the rickety tray table by the bed.

She knows she is stalling, is well aware the doctors are at an impasse, which isn't their fault, yet somehow she wants to believe it is. Maybe they are not as smart as Dr. Cuddy insists they are. In her heart, Eloise is an optimist. She believes an answer is forthcoming, and is loath to leave without it.

where is Dr. House...?

While Felicia sleeps, Eloise roams the corridors that hum with quiet life; soft rhythmic beeps and the drone of a TV news report float by as she moves past the reception area into the elevator bank. She presses the down button and immediately bursts into tears.

Closing her eyes, she leans against the wall. In her head she sees herself, those thin shoulders shuddering with the force of her sobs; it's like she is observing herself from a window high above. Surrendering to repressed anxiety and apprehension is not her style; she has always been the strong one. Such is the lot of a single parent. To her left the elevator doors slide open and she can count the footsteps as tears slide down her face. Someone is talking to her, touching her sleeve.

Reluctantly she steadies her breaths and opens her eyes to find the nice Indian doctor. He gazes at her with concern, the corners of his lips curling in that kind, boyish grin.

"Don't give up, Eloise," he says gently, then shrugs. "At least not yet."

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and a can't help return his smile.

Three more days, she thinks. She will give this three more days before she takes Felicia home to start the search again.

He shouldn't be here. Garrett paces before the bed, glowering at his charge, who knows nothing of his annoyance.

This was supposed to be his down time but Irie needed to head back to New Mexico, and Sarno claimed he was running on three hours sleep. It is easy to forget to wind down here, unless you're diligent about maintaining a strict schedule. Acclimating your body clock to second world time requires great self-discipline-something which Sarno lacks.

But all was not dour and aggravating for Garrett, since Marcia had finally agreed to take the plunge and join him here. She is waiting in Nova City at the Wylekirk, one of two luxury hotels in the downtown area. She will have to entertain herself for a while but it's not as if she will be without diversions. The virtua-vision screens will allow her to take a travelogue tour of Rome, Greece, London and Paris in the time it will take Garrett to finish what he needs to do.

While in Nova City he cannot forget to keep his dental appointment. Repeated trips through Station One portals rot teeth, implants or no. This is something that, with all their technology, they have yet to overcome. Garrett is certain he will need to a get a complete new set of uppers, not a simple touch-up like last time.

Lucky he's not paying.

On the bed, the doctor snorts and shifts, eyelids twitch, the wires attached to his temples brush his cheeks. He is dreaming. REM sleep. Delta waves on the screen are strong. That screen is usually hidden behind paneling just above the headboard, which slides open with a touch of a button on Garrett's keypad. There is no reason to hide it now.

Smiling a sultry smile, Misha enters the room, a cup of espresso in her hand; her blue-black hair flows down her back. She no longer wears her Shift-wear, the feather light 'skin' that holds the image and personality of the person (or persons) she wishes to be. Once the Shift-wear is placed over her own skin, she 'becomes' whoever embodies it. Shifters are highly trained, in much demand and well compensated for their efforts.

Garrett throws her a knowing look. She didn't need to seduce Dr. House. They could have easily made him believe she did. But Misha is a stickler for detail, for insisting on making the experience as real as it possibly can be. Judging by the way she is glowing and the sated feline look of that grin, she enjoyed the experience as much as the doc did.

After their romp, she added a light sedative to his tea assuring sleep would take him quickly.

She hands Garrett the espresso and tells him she's off, back to the old Victorian haunt she chose for herself on Morningside. Her husband, (the algebra instructor at Pleasantville High) is home, waiting.

Garrett watches her leave and wonders if the algebra teacher is at all aware of his wife's obsession with details, but he doesn't go there. Doesn't want to make waves. The only waves he is interested are the ones on the screen: the ones belonging to Doctor House.

"Good evening, Doctor."

The doctor responds with a quirk of his lips and a heavy lidded stare. The Phenobarbital is just about kicking in.

"How are you feeling?" Garrett seats himself at House's bedside, runs two fingers along the IV tubing. The drip is his friend; it will keep the doctor in a twilight state long enough to complete this stage of the project.

"Dunno..."

"But...you're feeling good."

"Mmm...no." House sighs, shakes his head. "...sleepy."

"That's understandable."

"Wanna sleep." House's head lolls to the side, which prompts Garrett to dig a thumb in the hollow just below his shoulder. Hurt and surprise fight their way through the drug to register dimly in House's eyes.

Garrett frowns, his gaze shifts to the empty espresso cup on the nightstand. So many here practically live on the stuff to keep themselves going. Wired now, nerves tingling, he tries to muster some enthusiasm for what he needs to do, but it's difficult. He doesn't get off on this part of the job. Sarno enjoys it. If exhaustion hadn't gotten to him, he would be here right now, making progress. And progress was key. Garrett draws in a long breath, lets it out slow, thinks about Marcia, the Wylekirk, nightlife in Nova City, and urges himself to get through this in the quickest most painless way possible.

"First we talk, then you sleep." Garrett feels a sudden pang of remorse for the man on the bed. The doctor didn't ask for this; he was seduced, putty in their hands, felled by needs, wants and pleasures.

"I'm sorry," Garrett can't help murmuring. But it has no effect. House's eyes are slits of drugged accusation, which will soon close again if Garrett doesn't soldier on.

"You're in a very good place, you know." His tone is soft, friendly, companionable. "You've never felt better. Your pain is gone. The world is interesting, fresh and new."

House blinks at him. It is a look of confusion, of surprise. Of disbelief. He yawns.

"Your weariness is not a bad thing," Garrett explains, holding one hand out like he is offering an entreaty. "It's...like weariness at the end of the day, after a job well done."

"Sleep...," House murmurs.

"Soon," Garrett checks the clipboard on his lap, makes a notation in a grid before continuing. "After we talk about your future."

A small flicker of something...fear, apprehension, regret, appears in House's eyes before vanishing abruptly into the blue.

The waves on the screen roll and dip.

"There is a track behind the high school, you probably haven't seen yet." Raising his brows, he nods and leans in to whisper, "It's a beauty. Three miles. You can run it."

"No...muscle death."

"You can run it." Garrett is not a scientist. He knows something about Chronic Pain Nullification but is still unsure how it is that the lame can walk here, how the IQ of the feeble rise to 'normal' levels and beyond. He just knows what is.

"Misha..."

The mention of the woman's name flummoxes Garrett for a moment. He clears his throat, folds his hands over his paperwork as he regains his composure.

"What about her?"

House closes his eyes and for a moment Garrett thinks he has lost him. But the tear making a slow trek down House's cheek tells Garrett something interesting is going on here, something that will give him an edge in this predominantly uphill battle.

"Mi-sha."

Garrett refers to his notes. Three women play an important part in the doctor's life, three women Shifter Misha embodied when she bedded him.

"Stacy Warner...Allison Cameron...Lisa Cuddy...Misha was all of them...," Garrett says, a small smile planting itself on his lips. "You want her again."

"No." House's shoulders lift slightly. He wets his lips, turns his head away.

"As long as you stay here, she's yours. A wonderful prospect, isn't it?"

Another tear slips down House's cheek. Sighing, his gaze grows distant, as though he is searching for a hole in the void. An escape.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel, coming up just over the rise. Garrett sees it, goes for it. He wants this to end almost as much as he suspects his charge does.

"Already the memory of your life prior to this, of what went before is fading like an old photograph, floating like a leaf on gentle breeze," he says. "It's like...that was all a dream and now you're back where you were always meant to be."

House lets his eyes drift shut. His mouth falls open. The waves on the screen slow.

"This is your here and now, Dr. House," Garrett whispers. "It is where you want to remain, where you feel comfortable and safe. Where nothing hurts."

"Sleep," House mutters.

Garrett snorts as he rises to his feet; he's had enough of this. It's too bad they couldn't leave the doctor's decision to the doctor instead of being forced to 'help' the process along.

He winces slightly, giving his charge a careful once over before getting to the task of removing the wires from House's temples, the needle from his arm, He will return the screen to its place behind the wall, clean up the IV apparatus and the gauze, the tape...

...as if none of it never existed.