-20-
"Disoriented"
He knows she's there, watching through the plate glass. He purposely left the blinds open so she could better observe him sitting silent and still in the half-light. Closing them wouldn't have deterred her from playing the nosy, caring boss lady/friend/fantasy stripper/hooker/fuckbuddy, anyway. That last part was mostly in his head.
Too bad, Cuddy, too bad.
And closing the blinds would not have deterred her from bursting into his office unannounced; if anything, it would have spurred her on. He could do without surprises right now. His records are still in the bag on the desk. He rests one hand on top of it. Is he assuring himself the package is his? That it's real? That it has substance?
His other hand rests on his right thigh, which, at this moment, is not his friend. Not even close. It throbs and spasms and burns, despite the three Vicodin he dry swallowed ten minutes ago. By now the pain should have decreased by half, but no. It's just not happening.
all in your mind, old man...
He would much rather be home, half lying, half sitting on that well worn leather sofa,TV droning, a blanket over his legs, a half-full bottle of bourbon on the coffee table, just within reach.
Yeah, he would much rather be home. It's just that getting there is the problem.
The door behind him opens. He hears her footfalls. He knows that walk, that purposeful, don't fuck with me click, clack, click. Then...nothing.
"House."
His head bobs, his chin bounces against his chest. His thoughts meander another few moments before a sudden rush of adrenaline causes him to jolt upright. A realization hits him as his breath clicks in his throat, as his heart races like the favorite at Santa Anita. His subconscious was working on stuff beneath those rambling, conscious thoughts of home and bourbon and comfort. In his hand is a pen, which rests on a wrinkled sheet of Princeton-Plainsboro stationery. Upon closer scrutiny it seems he has drawn a somewhat detailed (albeit sloppy) street map of Princeton.
"What are you doing?"
The map looks alien to him. Wrong, somehow. Narrowing his eyes, he peers closer. Merriweather Street is nowhere to be found. He left it out. Because...
...because...
"I got lost."
"What do you mean," Cuddy says, rounding the desk. "lost?"
He runs his tongue across his lower lip; his brow furrows as he struggles to comprehend what is going on in his head. The task is daunting. The air seems too thick here, intruding on his thoughts, causing his leg pain to rise and swell, traveling up, up, up to his temples. Yellow leaves swim before his eyes, so bright they make his pupils contract. The fingers of one hand tighten around the pen, making a fist and pounding the desk, the pen point landing just shy of the precious package of vinyl.
He hardly realizes he's done it until the slice of pain in his hand tosses a signal to his muddled brain.
Hurts, Buddy, It really, truly does.
Cuddy is directly in front of him now, kneeling so she is looking into his eyes. "House." Her voice is low and steady. "Where the hell did you go?"
He smiles at the memory of sunshine and trees, an ice cream truck, a dancing boy. But like dead leaves whipped and tossed across a stretch of cold pavement, the smile skitters away. The feel of the pen in his fingers revives him, the way he is pressing, pressing hard enough to make a hole in the paper straight through to the wood, is not right, not natural. Not him.
"We were worried," she says.
"I started out fine," he says with a sense of calm that belies his tangled thoughts, "then I couldn't find my way home. So many street signs. Ever notice the street signs, Cuddy?"
"Of course..."
"Ever try to remember the ones you pass while you're driving?" He winces, presses his palm against his ruined thigh. "It didn't matter which street I turned down. They were all dead ends." Shrugging, he scribbles another line on the map. "Sounds like shitty poetry, bad karma, bad...something."
"What happened to you, House?"
"Vacation, Cuddy." He tips his head, tosses her a wink that holds not a trace of humor. "Did me a world of good, can't you tell? Oh, wait a minute, you're just glad I got out of your hair for awhile. Doesn't really matter where I went or what I did."
"What...did you do? Were you out on a binge?"
"Where's Kutner?" Suddenly, more than anything, he wants answers.
"He's with a patient, someone you should see."
"I need to see Kutner." His determination is like a living thing that won't be soothed until its hunger is quelled. It's obvious from the bouquet of sadness, fear and acquiescence in Cuddy's eyes, she knows it too.
"Okay, okay." She rises to her feet and smoothes her skirt. If he were feeling better he might have enjoyed the view.
He grabs his cane, then snatches the makeshift map off the desk. Handing it to her, he asks softly, "Is this right?"
"I thought-"
"Is this right?" His voice cracks, which summons up a Cuddy tear. It clings to the corner of her left eye before rolling down her cheek. "Is this how I get home?"
After giving his work a moment of scrutiny, she looks up. "No. It's not." Her cheeks shine from the tears now sliding down her face, now touching her lips.
"Make it right," he says, pushing hard on the crook of his cane and rising to his feet. "Then take me to Kutner."
Garrett is not in a good mood. It is as if black clouds have cast a deep pall over his affable demeanor. He is able to weather most issues tossed at him. Today is different.
His free time is at a premium. Being able to enjoy the long days and nights with his wife was like finding gold at the bottom of a murky well: a surprise that comes up infrequently, if at all.
They had been relaxing in Nova City's Wylekirk Manor, the classiest joint in town, as Sarno might have put it. It was late afternoon; he and Marcia were enjoying drinks on the patio outside their suite. Everything was free: the liquor, the accommodations, the enticing array of accessories left near the jacuzzi adjacent to the king-size bed. Those accessories catered to both his and Marcia's sexual proclivities. Nothing overly kinky: leather restraints, French ticklers, warming gels.
Garrett was initially reluctant to wear the edible briefs Marcia surprised him with until she displayed wonderfully inventive and rousing ways of making them all gone. He should have known better than to second guess Marcia when it came to sex. She taught him everything he knew.
The call from Sarno was not totally unexpected. When had the weasel ever been able to handle a problem on his own? A fiasco always started with Sarno and ended up in Garrett's lap. Garrett supposed he could complain to Irie, but where would that get him? Nothing like being branded a whiner or complainer to set you back three rungs on the career ladder to the stars.
Since Sarno couldn't handle a simple thing like a Temporary Ousting on his own, Garrett was forced to interrupt his respite and intercede. In the end, after the 'problem' had been taken out on a gurney, and transported to Santa Mil, a livid Garrett forced Sarno to the side of Jayda's house, out of the Service's line of sight. The weasel had acted like a swaggering, pompous fool during the entire process, tossing out orders, treating Garrett like the slimiest piece of detritus in the trash.
This was unacceptable. This was the end of the line.
Sweating despite the chill in the air, Garrett got in Sarno's face. "Never even think to ask for a favor again if you want to keep your nose attached to the rest of your butt ugly mug."
Sarno's eyes widened. His mouth moved; the tip of his tongue touched his upper lip, then retreated.
"You don't get it, do you?" Garrett pushed the heel of his hand into the weasel's chest.
"It's your job to be here when I need you," Sarno croaked.
"Three strikes, Sarno. One...you couldn't manage to keep the doctor here. Two...the woman's been Ousted." He put enough pressure against Sarno's breastbone to make the weasel groan. "And three...you couldn't keep your damn fool mouth shut."
"Rule 67-2 states suspicion of a former officer of the company betraying the code must be reported to Services."
"You might as well have stabbed her in the heart." After one final shove, Garrett whipped round on his heel and stormed off.
Now he sits on the last transport shuttle back to Wylekirk, cheek resting against the cool glass as the garish billboards and neon signs toss out flickering, provocative winks. He wonders if Marcia is still awake; she is still not acclimated to the seemingly endless nights. It will take her body clock time to become accustomed to the vast differences in how hours flows here versus...there. By that time she will have to go home.
The solution is beyond him.
But Marcia is not his main concern. She is easy to please with endearments and a loving touch. No, his main concern is Dr. House. Sarno should have never let him go, despite the fact that the doctor requested an out. Garrett could tell by the look in the doctor's eyes that he might have stayed. Just another round of Phenobarbital might have turned the want into a smoldering, irresistible need.
Garrett has one thing going for him the others do not. He is patient. As he exits the transport, his thoughts flow like golden starshine drifting over the Nova City skies. Hands on hips, he exhales softly and stares, entranced, at the show. It is the first time he has seen this particular design. Little fireworks, brilliant cascades of comets and diamond lights. Here...then gone. The designers always offer up something to surprise and delight. To his surprise a smile arrives unbidden; the sparkling display has given him hope.
He gazes around the sparsely populated station. A few drunken stragglers wander by. One of the licensed "Party Pals" approaches and shoots him a pleasure buzz on his neck with her taser. He shivers, tempted. She is a beauty. He knows this one; he recalls taking her up on her offer the night depression almost pushed him off the muddy edge of the shuttle tracks. He probably owes this one his life. Tonight he waves the sign of refusal, then hails a jetty that will take him back to the hotel.
In the end, he thinks, it will all work out. Pleasant Hills will have their physician. Just give it time, his inner voice drifts through his head. Eventually those visions of fall afternoons and cloudless blue skies are sure to overpower Dr. House and call him back again.
Kutner quietly but adamantly denies House's accusations, and House can't help but believe him. In his current state, no way he could have pulled off a prank of such magnitude.
Really... he looks like shit.
Normally Kutner is fastidious about his appearance, like a good doctor should be. Now it seems he hasn't seen a mirror or a razor...for quite awhile. House can't venture to guess how long, since time flows differently here. It is an extraordinarily alien sensation. Interesting, yet uncomfortable, like some oily creature has its feelers roaming under his skin.
Kutner's eyes hold a touch of fear, and House knows this case has slipped away from him; he also knows Kutner has no idea how to get it back. Kutner's fingers brush the end of the blanket, his dark probing eyes never leave his charge. The girl in the bed doesn't notice or doesn't care. She is immersed in the first or second Harry Potter book (House always gets them confused), while the mother eyes House hopefully. Maybe, finally, here is someone who can help.
House hasn't agreed to listen to the details of the girl's malady; Kutner enlightens him anyway. The symptoms strike a chord somewhere in the vast wasteland of House's muddled brain.
"Unexplained, cyclical fevers," House mutters, wending his way over to the girl. He puts a hand to her forehead, presses her glands with the tips of his fingers. She gives him the barest look of acknowledgment before returning to Hogwart's.
"Has she been tested for Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis?" he asks Kutner, tapping the tip of his cane against a table leg in rhythm with the words.
"Yes." Kutner holds a file folder toward him, which he ignores.
"Cyclic neutropenia?"
"It's all in the file."
"Familial Mediterranean fever, Behçet disease, hyperimmunoglobulinemia D syndrome?"
"Yessss...."
"See, this is why I hired you." House says with a heft of one brow and twirl of his cane. "Having fun?"
"It's all in the file," Kutner says with a weary sigh.
"How about...mmm," House taps his chin with the crook of his cane. He is beginning to feel a lot better. "tick-borne relapsing fever?"
Obviously stymied, Kutner responds with a slow shake of his head.
"Check for that." House is already heading for the door, disregarding Eloise, who raises her hand like an anxious student with the question of the day. "If the tests are negative, take out her tonsils."
He doesn't look round to see if this last remark has made an impression. There is no need. He knows the mom and Kutner are gawping after him like they've just experienced a spiritual awakening.
After making two wrong turns and nearly ending up in a supply closet, House finds his office. In the half-light he sees the crumpled street map waiting on his desk like a piece of bad news. He doesn't like the map. The fact that he had to draw it makes those alien feelers dig in with a bit more gusto.
He takes one step toward his desk and feels it then, a sharp twinge that tells him, your leg pain is on its way, rollin' down the tracks on the 3:03.
Digging in his pocket, he finds his keys and a pig snout eraser. He lays them both on his desk beside the map and stares at them awhile. The eraser snout seems to flare and snort and suddenly he is back in that room with the patient and the white lights and the table...and your hands passing through her, feeling the wrongness in her, the heat of that sickness under your fingers...
The leg pain intensifies, like strong hands, boxer's hands, have wrapped themselves with vise-like power around his thigh.
forgot about this, didn't you, old man? forgot about lots of things....
...and he is falling, his leg turning the traitor again, collapsing beneath him. He reaches out to grab something, anything that will stop him on his way, but all he comes up with is the pig snout eraser. It breathes hot and fast, struggling inside his clenched fist. With any luck he will smother it.
With any luck.
He drops the eraser as he falls backwards in slo-mo, Above the sky is crystalline blue. Leaves surround him, tangle in his hair, engulf him. Some are red, some yellow, some are past their prime, brittle and brown and dead. It's alright. Closing his eyes, he smiles. Here he can rest. Here he doesn't have to think or worry about what is really happening over there...or here...or wherever.
Someone is speaking, the voice is distant, a comfort. He doesn't freely admit his elation but inside, deep in the depths of this comfortable respite, he is forced to.
"Your leg hurts. Again." Amber stands over him, hands on hips, smiling that haughty, naughty smile that confirms she is always right. "It's always painful here, isn't it?" White clouds drift behind her, revealing the slightest trace of blue as they separate and dissipate like cotton candy at the fair. "If you don't go back, you're an idiot." She turns and leaves him, which brings him to note how...
...the carpet beneath him is thin, scratchy. He never realized how uncomfortable his floor was until just now. Above him, Cuddy has claimed Amber's place. Above her are fluorescent lights and the eggshell white ceiling. She kneels down, looks suitably distressed. Her breasts shift; her mouth moves. He can just barely make out that she is calling his name, over and over.
Turning his head, he closes his eyes, wondering where he might be when he opens them again.