Chapter Text
Stacy stands outside Greg’s room. She takes a few deep breaths, mentally preparing. It had been four days since the surgery, and four days since she’d last seen him. Four days of going out of her mind with worry. Worrying about his recovery, and perhaps a little more selfishly, worrying about their relationship. About herself. And behind all of that, she could feel the dull embers of anger smoldering; like a campfire on the precipice of death, hungering for resuscitation. And further behind even that echoed pangs of longing--she misses him, sorely.
Through the glass panes, Cuddy holds a clipboard, her head bobbing up and down as she reels off all the post-op recovery instructions. Greg is sitting up, his legs hanging off the side of the bed; he’s wearing the jeans and t-shirt he wore before admission. He looks bored, rolling his eyes and pitching in one of his usual snarky comments now and then. He looks the same. Her heart seems to squeeze. She enters the room.
Those bright blue eyes lock onto her, completely unreadable.
Cuddy glances over at her, before giving Greg a forced smile. “I’ll leave you two alone now.” On her way out, she fixes him with one last glare. “Don’t skip out on physio, House.” The door closes.
Greg scrunches up his face, gesturing towards the doorway. “It’s like I’m not even a doctor.”
Stacy smiles, daring to walk over to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, my leg hurts. Other than that, pretty good--I’ve got a,” he pauses to read the pill bottle label, “a Vicodin prescription now. Should take the edge off.” His tone is airy, as if they were discussing the weather. As if they were simply strangers making small talk.
Stacy bites her lip, hesitating. She can’t not ask. “What about... what I did? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Greg shrugs.
“Really?” She doesn’t believe it.
He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “You did what you had to do. What you thought was right.”
She leans in, searching his face for something, anything. A furrow in his brow, a slight frown--any sign that he‘s there, anything that she could hold onto. Her grasping hands slip uselessly against his impassivity; there is nothing.
He doesn’t let her keep searching, or even reply: he begins standing up. She swoops in as he stumbles, wrapping her arm around his back to support him. He feels a little bonier, but his warmth is the same.
“Here, they gave you a wheelchair for a reason,” Stacy chastises, trying to guide him towards the wheelchair.
He grabs a pair of crutches leaning against the wall. “They gave me these for a reason too.”
Stacy sighs, letting go of him as he sets the crutches beneath his arms. As he lopes out of the room, she grabs the wheelchair and follows him. Not even ten feet out of his room, Greg relents, letting Stacy push him the rest of the way.
She stares at the nape of his neck, following that line of graying hair sprout up into his scalp. It’s always like this, isn’t it? He always so stubbornly chooses to take the hard way--out of pride, or egotism, or self-loathing, or all three--and then he crashes. Then it’s up to Stacy to have the wheelchair behind him, to bring him back home. And then the whole metaphor falls apart, because Greg is turning his head around now, looking up at her with those icy eyes, making her downright arrhythmic. She smiles, the knot of worry in her chest bursting, sending a rush of relief throughout her whole body. Thank God, he’s alive.
***
The two have fallen into an uneasy rhythm. Stacy spends a lot of time away from home, busy with a big case. House loafs around, watching TV and reading mostly. He isn’t set to start physical therapy for another week--give the leg wound time to heal. The Vicodin helps a lot. Even so, every morning he finds himself waking up at 3 or 4 AM, drenched in sweat and gritting his teeth in pain. He tries to leave bed as quietly as possible, but his crutches are loud.
The first time, Stacy woke up with him. She placed a hand on his arm tenderly, eyes full of sleepy concern. “I’ll stay with you,” she murmured, sitting up in bed.
“Don’t,” House said firmly. “...You need the sleep. I’m fine, go back to bed.”
She had frowned then, looking caught between reassuring him or arguing with him. But then, something passed between them. The hurt registered clear on her face. She curled back up underneath the blankets.
Since then, she pretends to sleep when he gets up. Even though she doesn’t stir, House can tell she’s pretending by those consistent dark circles under her eyes.
The day after his first day of physical therapy, she excuses herself from the living room, pretending she has to make a phone call and stepping outside. House chews on this. It’s a gloomy, cloudy Saturday night--even if it were her client, there’s no reason for her to take the call outside in the cold. She could step into another room if it were confidential. When she comes back within a few minutes, this only further solidifies his suspicion: If it were a call to a client, it would’ve taken much longer to sort out. He briefly considers whether or not she was calling someone else--some guy with a functioning leg and dimples--a fear that is quashed almost instantly as she sits next to him on the couch. She’s chewing gum. A very strong mint gum, so strong it almost covers up the hint of smoke on her breath. Almost.
***
House leans against the car window, barely registering the passing streets. His crutches sit on either side of his leg, ends jammed into the footspace beneath the dashboard. Exhaustion weighs down every muscle in his body; that throb in his leg follows its now familiar rhythm, attuned to the beat of his heart. They were headed back after House’s third physical therapy appointment. Every time, they leave him sapped of all his energy.
It’s quiet, save for the dull droning of automotive engines, punctuated by their wheels kicking up splashes of pollutant-logged water. A lazy drizzle gathers in potholes and gutters; the whole world is overwhelmingly gray.
Stacy’s eyes are fixed on the road ahead, fingers tapping the steering wheel. She seems nervous all the time lately, House notes. Soon enough, they’re back at their apartment building. Stacy turns off the ignition, swinging her legs out of the car and onto the drenched asphalt fluidly. Easily. House opens the passenger door, wincing as he tries to lift himself from his seat. In an instant, Stacy is at his side, grabbing a hold of his shoulder to brace him and help him out.
“I’m not a complete invalid!” He snaps suddenly. His voice is harsh and raw in his throat.
Stacy immediately backs off, perturbed. All the gentle concern is gone, replaced by a confused hurt.
House pulls himself out of the car, crutches first, stumbling slightly. Stacy’s arms raise, but she doesn’t do anything. He straightens himself out. On the asphalt, bathed in rainwater and sediment, a lone worm writhes.
“I’m fine, okay?” House mutters, still looking at the ground. He leaves for their apartment, not waiting for Stacy to answer.
She returns home fifteen minutes later. Says something about a sudden phonecall before sequestering herself in their room. House stays on the couch, staring blankly and letting the television airwaves pass over him. Somehow, he feels a guilt clawing at him, yet he doesn’t feel sorry.
***
Fuller startles, quickly setting down his magazine and turning around as House enters the room. Madsen barely glances up as she pours herself a cup of coffee.
“Woah, you’re back!” Fuller exclaims. With his shortly cropped blond hair and stocky build, he resembles someone’s farmhand more than someone’s doctor.
“Yeah, yeah, save the faux concern for later, we’ve got a case.” House limps into the room using a cane. He made the switch from crutches the other day, figuring his leg wound was healed enough to handle the weight; those crutches were too cumbersome anyway.
“Wow, really? It’s been so long, I think I forgot how to be a doctor!” Fuller says, supposedly sarcastically. His sarcastic voice is nigh indistinguishable from his sincere voice.
“It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” Madsen raises an eyebrow as she sits down at the table. With her unblemished dark skin, shoulder length coils, and big, round eyes, she easily could’ve landed a modelling job. Neither of his fellows fill out their lab coats quite right.
House frowns, checking his watch. “No, I’d say it’s downright irresponsible how late I am.” He throws a file onto the table. “Construction worker presents with pulmonary edema and-”
“I meant about you being here. You aren’t due to come back for another week.”
”Well, I’m not the one who’s breathing through a tube and bleeding out of his ears--hitching a bus ride is cheap and easy for us able-bodied folk.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, pulling out a chair and sitting down. His thigh’s already begun to throb. “Now, I already know neither of you actually give a crap about my leg. Can we get to the differential?”
Madsen shrugs, her face impassive. “Sure.”
The DDX helps take House’s mind off of everything. By everything, of course, he means his leg. Despite being three weeks post-op, the pain wasn’t getting any better. In fact, ever since that last physio appointment, the leg pain had been getting harder to ignore, for whatever reason.
Fuller throws out several ideas (“The ears could mean a brain bleed, which could be caused by a hypertensive crisis--a thyroid problem! Or it could mean something’s wrong with one of his heart valves”); Madsen notes autoimmune and kidney diseases can cause hypertension (“Lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, or chronic kidney disease”). House calls them idiots, barks out some orders for an echocardiogram, CT scan, and to search the patient’s home and workplace for toxins. As the two head out, he tries to mull over the symptoms. He’s thinking about mercury poisoning--there are some rare cases where patients present with hypertension--but his thoughts are interrupted by his thigh throbbing again, as if protesting. He sucks in air through gritted teeth, gently massaging it. His hand lifts towards his jacket pocket, hesitating slightly. He reaches in for his Vicodin.
***
Fuller ducks his head under the bathroom sink, jabbing a cotton swab at the mildewed crevices. The tests hadn’t given a lot of information, so here they were breaking and entering another patient’s depressing apartment. This was what, the third time? We’re naturals at this whole criminal activity thing, Fuller thinks.
The first time House ordered a B&E, Fuller thought it was a joke. This guy’s the guy for diagnostics, a world renowned doctor, and he’s asking them to break the law? The third guy they were working with, Clay Baxtor or something, quit on the spot! Once Fuller and Madsen got to it, though, it turned out there’s a lot of useful information to be gleaned from trespassing. That’s classic House (at least for the past couple weeks Fuller’s known the guy): crazy, yet genius. Today, however, House seemed to be missing some of that spark.
“So, when do you think he’ll go back to normal again?” Fuller asks, voice echoing from beneath the sink.
Madsen hovers over him, holding out a plastic bag. “Normal?” She raises an eyebrow.
He dips his head out, sitting on his haunches. “Y’know what I mean! Before he was, well he was mean and weird, but he was interesting. Now he’s all... mean, weird, and sad.” He drops the sample into the bag.
Madsen shrugs. “I don’t really care. So long as his name is on my resume, I’m good.”
“Cold.”
“You’re concerned about his entertainment value fluctuating, and I’m the cold one?” she snorts.
“...Ok, touche.” Fuller keeps digging under the sink, pulling out toilet bowl cleaner and bleach. “Maybe the patient took a swig of these.”
“Maybe. If we discount the complete lack of abdominal symptoms.”
***
Wilson sighs, checking his watch as he comes up on his office. 6:46 PM. That meeting with his patient, Naomi, ran a touch later than he anticipated. Hopefully he could get home in time; Bonnie wanted to go to a movie together. He opens the door to his office, and all hopes of making it home on time are dashed: On his couch sits House, fidgeting with his new cane.
“Is my watch working?” Wilson checks the time again.
“Construction worker ended up having mercury poisoning. Switched to a pescatarian diet and started catching his own fish from the river. Every day, multiple times a day, for several months. The toxic exposure shot up his blood pressure, leading to a hypertensive crisis causing the brain bleed and the pulmonary edema. Chelation’s clearing him up as we speak.”
Wilson frowns. “You didn’t come here just to tell me about the construction worker.”
House looks up at the ceiling. “It’s interesting stuff. The guy ate so much fish his brain started hemorrhaging.”
“House, this is a snooze compared to your usual cases.”
House continues avoiding eye contact.
“You’re not... avoiding Stacy, are you?”
“You’re here pretty late yourself. Avoiding the ol’ ball and chain?”
“Bonnie and I are fine—I had to meet with a patient, it ran a little late and…” Wilson puts his hands on his hips. “You’re deflecting.”
House purses his lips, hoisting himself off of Wilson’s couch. He leans his right hand on his cane, not the left; he’s using it on the wrong side. He clicks his tongue. “I’m going out for drinks. You coming?”
Wilson slowly shakes his head, narrowing his eyes. “You’re on opiods, you can’t go out drinking.”
“Yeah, I went to med school too. You coming?”
“…Fine. Only to make sure you don’t kill yourself,” Wilson says, pulling out his cell phone. He makes a quick phone call to Bonnie, letting her know he’ll be out late. House lurks, tapping his fingers against Wilson’s desk impatiently; it summons to mind the image of a grade schooler waiting for the adults to finally shut up. When Wilson finishes up and closes his phone, House leads the way to the parking garage with surprising speed.
Worry gnaws at Wilson’s belly. He knew House would have some… difficulties, especially with forgiving Stacy. The stubborn jackass he is, Wilson guessed that it would take months for House to get over it. But as of late, something seems off about House. He seems almost reserved, the caustic bite to his words dulled by a sort of distance. It’s not unusual for him to be absorbed in his thoughts, but this distance is… emptier. As if he’s lost in a fog, not an internal monologue.
House holds his cane to his right side, his injured side, walking with it as if it were a part of his leg. Far from the most ergonomic way of using a cane. As he unlocks his car door, Wilson wonders if House is still going to his physiotherapy appointments.
***
It’s late. Dimly lit lamps and sounds of television create a bubble of warmth surrounded by pitch darkness. Outside, November winds howl promises of snow and ice to come. Stacy leans against the wall, too busy ruminating to feel cozy. Greg sits on the couch in front of her, his back facing her. Completely checked out.
“Greg, we need to talk,” Stacy starts.
“Kinda busy here.” He doesn’t look.
Stacy rolls her eyes and walks around, stopping in front of the screen. She picks up the remote and turns it off.
He doesn’t say anything, just sighing and looking up at her.
“Are you skipping physio?” She asks point-blank.
Greg scoffs. “What kind of moron do you think I am?”
“Yesterday, while you were out, someone from the hospital left a message--said you were overdue for your physical therapy follow-up. In fact, he said you were a month overdue: You haven’t gone since the last time I drove you.”
“Well,” he starts, lacing his fingers together. “I figure, on account of my being a doctor and all, I can handle the stretching and massaging routine just fine.”
“You’re not a physiotherapist, Greg.”
He shrugs. “I’m saving us money.”
“You know very well I don’t give a damn about that! Why are you avoiding your appointments?” Stacy glares at him, challenging his reticence, to no avail.
“Look, I already switched to a cane,” he holds up and shakes his cane, as if she needs proof. “I’m on the mend--soon I’ll be prancing in fields of dandelions and lovehearts. I’ll be sure to invite you to each of my hundreds of future marathons.”
“Don’t be glib.”
“A chunk of my leg is missing, what do you think physical therapy is gonna do--grow it back? It’s no panacea.”
“It’ll help you with the pain! Don’t think I don’t notice you with that Vicodin--you’re supposed to be weaning off of it by now. The doctors said-”
“Doctors couldn’t even diagnose muscle death!” Seeing the worry in Stacy’s eyes, he takes a deep breath. “It’s my leg, I know how to deal with it. I’m keeping active enough so the muscle won’t atrophy; I massage it daily; I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re wrong.” She sits down next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look at her. “You’re afraid of the pain. You’re... avoiding this.”
“I can’t exactly avoid my own leg.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
His eyes drop. “I told you already,” he says, quietly. “You did what you had to.”
“Yes. But we both know you didn’t mean it.” He says nothing; she rubs his shoulder. “I need you to be honest with me. If we can talk this out, then...”
“There’s no point.”
She pulls away from him. “Just talk to me.”
“What do you expect me to say? ‘Yeah, I’ve actually always wanted to have a useless hunk of a leg and to be in pain 24/7--best anniversary present ever!’ I specifically told you want I wanted, and you went against that--how do you think I feel?” A harshness enters Greg’s voice, as it all begins spilling out of him.
Stacy flinches. “I know. And I’m trying--but every step of the way you keep shutting me out. You won’t let me be there for you--how am I supposed to support you?”
“This is pointless.” Greg pushes himself up, off the couch, leaning on his cane, and starts to walk away.
Stacy shoots up, whirling around him, blocking his path. “You won’t let me support you, you won’t let us talk about it; you can’t even give me a proper fight! You’d rather die than act like a human being!” She searches his face for something, anything to hold onto. Watering eyes to match her own tear-streaked face. He gives her nothing, just silently looking at her. Can’t even give me an answer. She backs away, shaking her head. “I can’t do this anymore.”
She grabs her purse and coat, only daring to glance back as she’s heading out the door. Standing alone in the living room, his eyes locked on her--he looks lost. He parts his mouth as if about to say something, but he never does. She lets the door slam behind her.