House Maintenance

By Bardvahalla 2005

Holmes had Mrs. Hudson.

House's domestic help is a little different.

House used a magnet to tack the list and two hundred dollar bills to the refrigerator, then patted his jacket pocket. Reassured his bottle of Vicodin was secure, Dr. Greg House limped out of his home and locked the door behind him.

It was Wednesday.

Isa, his "personal assistant", came in three times a week. His leg made it difficult to get around. The simple act of shopping for groceries and other basics, once only tiresome for House, was now terribly painful. After two false starts, he'd hired Isa to cook, clean and run errands for him. She was his third attempt at the finding the proverbial 'good help'.

The first woman he hired was simply inept. The word 'hygienic' was not part of her vocabulary. Her cooking was vile and continuously over-spiced. Even less forgivable was the fact she chattered at him like a magpie on crack. She lasted less than a month. He'd forgotten her name. The second one, while a decent cook, habitually raided his liquor cabinet and short changed him on the groceries. He remembered her name. It stuck in his memory like a barbed hook. Her name was Grace and such a name did not suit her.

He nearly had not hired Isa. She had badly dyed red hair. The shade she'd chosen did not suit her complexion. The roots were a much more pleasant dark brown with honey hi-lights, like an English stout ale. Her eyes were round and earthy, reminiscent of a cow's, but her figure was lithe, almost boyish. House found her freakishly unattractive. She was a bit young, but she was bright, honest, took instruction well and her cooking had improved.

Once she realized his hours could be erratic, she took care to make dinners that could be reheated easily. There was always a bowl of fresh fruit salad for breakfast. She would make a plate full of stuffed sandwiches for quick snacks. He was eating well these days. He liked coming home to the scent of a cooked meal and the lemon oil she used on the wood furniture. He liked that he almost never spoke to her. She was like an elf that took care of him and was never seen. Instinctively she understood that was what he wanted. He didn't want to chat or get personal. He didn't want know anything about her. He just wanted her to deal with certain tiresome necessities.

Isa picked up his mail and the dry cleaning. On Fridays she rented DVDs and on Mondays returned them for him. Every Wednesday he left money to buy basic things he could not be bothered to worry about. He always made a list.

This week, beside the usual list of preferred foodstuffs, it was laundry soap, dress socks, sheet music for the Maple Leaf rag, two CDs (Mark Knoffler's latest and Don Ho's greatest hits), a used paperback edition of the Darwin Awards (he'd misplaced his other one and suspected Chase had purloined it from work), 3 ply toilet paper and World Weekly news. House loved to read Weekly World News. He flipped through it, and grinned at the photoshopped face of Ellen Degeneres on a man's body. God, he loved these guys. His favorite issue had been the one with the absurd photo of the skeletal remains of two people in a life ring bearing the name of the Titanic on it. It was one of his guilty pleasures, and House had quite a few guilty pleasures.

Along with the DVD's she rented on Fridays, Isa would buy treats from his preferred bakery, fresh smoked salmon, a bottle of white wine, a six-pack of Corona's and roll of fruity flavored Tums. He generally did make his own meals, but he found most things tasted better if Isa cooked them.

House had put on seven pounds since he'd hired her.

Isa would leave the receipts and the change on a plate in the kitchen. The beer would be cold in the fridge. The mail sorted into piles. Bills in one pile, junk in another. New magazines were laid out in the bathroom; Sport Illustrated, National Geographic, Harper's, Mad, the New England Journal of Medicine, Hello, and True Confessions.

On Friday mornings he would leave a cheque out. He was generous as to her wages, and knew he was her only client. She was taking courses, studying for something. He never asked what. He knew one day she would look for better work and he would have to hire someone else. But for now, at least, he didn't have to bother about trifles. He could indulge in his guilty pleasures without having to consider the logistics of acquiring them.

Friday night, barring anything at the hospital that kept him, he would return home and divert himself with munchies, movies, magazines, music, and mail.

Saturday morning he'd read the New York Times. He would pay his bills online, download tunes for the Ipod, download some porn for later and dutifully answer email. If he was lucky, that afternoon, he'd get called into to work and not have to think about keeping his overactive brain diverted from his throbbing leg. If not, he would have more movies to watch.

Sundays were the worst. Most times he'd go back to the hospital and prowl around. He could get the best gossip on Sundays, Who was seeing who, who had f-ed up and lost a patient, who was backstabbing who and which doctors were vying for Vogler's attention. On Monday he could go in well prepared and three steps ahead of Cuddy. Even with a bad leg and a worse attitude he could play politics better than her. It amused him that she got stuck with all the bullshit and the paperwork, yet he could shift the political tides his way at any time with one well-placed conversation.

Vogler didn't understand that yet.

House liked Vogler, although House never would admit it to anyone. He understood Vogler. Men who based their identities on money and power were usually easy to control.

When Friday arrived, House was depressed that nothing of lasting interest had occurred that week. Patients were being annoyingly textbook diagnosis. The clinic had provided a few moments of levity and diversion, but nothing substantial had intrigued him.

The scent of fried onions, fresh bread and lemon oil soothed his senses as he walked through the door. House dumped his keys on the counter and pulled out a beer. Six DVDs lay waiting on the living room table. Alien VS Predator. Wrong Turn. Confessions of An American Girl. Madhouse. Crumb. SpongeBob.

The place was clean. The fridge stocked for the weekend. Fresh sheets on the bed. Everything exactly as he liked it.

House piled the table with food and sandwiches, popped a Vicodin, put on Spongebob and, as the pain in his leg eased, tried not to think too much.

She was probably out with friends, telling them about her odd client with his erratic taste in music and reading material. She would be laughing, thinking about what to drink, maybe taking someone home. Was Isa was a sphinx without a secret, or did she have a real mystery about her? It amused him to speculate.

On Sunday he passed Isa coming out of a bookstore. He registered the fact she'd re-dyed her hair a rather disgusting brassy blonde shade, and deduced she was still seeking out a used copy of the Darwin Awards for him.

House realized he adored this ugly, mysterious little elf of his. If he ever discovered too much about her it would spoil everything. Some people were like that. He consciously never thought about her. She was a small blind spot in his life that he cultivated by avoidance.

With a satisfied sigh, House promptly pushed Isa out of his thoughts.