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sydedalus
Author of 25 Stories |
Title: Of a Thursday
Author: Sy Dedalus
Rating: T, TV-14, PG-13
Pairing: House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship
Spoilers: Season One.
Warnings: WIP
Summary: House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.
A/N: I got a little carried away and had some fun with stream of consciousness and free association in this chapter. I hope it isn't too hard to follow. The point of it is to show how messed up House's thinking has become; it seemed like the best way to do that was to actually write the thinking itself. It's a technique I plan to pick up later, too, in small amounts. Just to explain. :)
Thanks for the reviews everyone! Some specifics. Re: Young. Hadn't planned to have him return but now I'm thinking about it. Thanks. :) Re: switching perspective mid-scene. Good point. It does weaken the writing, I agree. However, I feel like this thing's drawn out enough as it is and I want to get it finished within a reasonable time-frame, so I don't plan to go back and change what's already done. Your criticism has made me watch out for it, though, and pay more attention to POV than I had been paying—thank you for that. I really appreciate constructive criticism. :)
Past midnight.
Awake. Sleepy. Have to pee. Don't wanna move. Comfy. Warm. Her next to me. Soft. Nice smell. Would like to…no. Can't. Have to pee. Damn. Don't want to. But have to. Damn.
He hauled himself up, wincing, leg hurting and feeling heavy. He shook his head, dizzy and light-headed, and made a face, rubbing his stomach.
Codeine. Side effects. Ugh.
He stumbled into the bathroom and flipped on the light.
Ouch. Damn, ouch. Ow, jeez. Still sore. Still red. A bit darker than it should be maybe. But consistent with…? Could be a kidney problem instead…wouldn't explain the fever though. But no fever now. Antibiotics must be working. Oh, and the acetaminophen. Duh. Slow tonight. Tired. Still, discolored. Something's not right. Feel like dog food. But still soon. Give it time. Ugh, damn codeine. Not kidding about nausea. Lay down, will help. Stupid muscle, hurts.
He washed his hands, turned off the light, and made his way back to the bed, limping slightly. He fought a groan and cursed codeine again as he lay down, hand on his stomach. He'd never taken T3 before and he rarely prescribed it for pain. His view on pain was that if it was bad enough that the patient needed a narcotic analgesic, the patient needed something stronger than the acetaminophen level in T3 and a less potentially addicting narcotic than codeine. It depended greatly on what was going on with the patient, though.
Thought I was a druggy. Why dispense T3 then? Codeine very addictive, morphine derivative. Missed the fun part, fell asleep first. Straight to the unpleasant side effects. Leg, damn. Leg still hurts. Damn. Agh, really hurts. But no, I can hold out. Don't need to take more. Still so sleepy, can fall asleep. Try not to think about anything. Think about nothing. Nothing. She's so warm there next to me, so nice. Really want to… No. Nothing. Nothing. Sleep. Sleep. Think of nothing. Sleep.
He curled on his side, feeling much better now that he was horizontal.
Side effects of codeine more prevalent in ambulatory patients than non-ambulatory patients… Lie down, feel better. And sleep. Sleep. Sleep. So tired. Sleep.
He clenched his teeth and dug his right hand into his thigh. It really, really hurt but he didn't want to take anything if he didn't need it. And he didn't need it. He didn't. He could do this.
Tough it out, tough it out. Walk it off. Ha. No, okay, obviously not. Can tough it out, though. Can do this. Can make it. Just sleep. Relax. Think of nothing. Sleep. So soft…mmm…light breathing…smells so good…in the morning maybe…if I can just sleep a little first, feel better then. Have all weekend to. Golf tomorrow. Nate. Bastard. But Wilson'll be there. Can cancel if we… Would be nice. All day here. Just getting up for food. Haven't done that in nearly a month. Did he call earlier? Seems like maybe…remember something about that. Whatever. Need a Saturday of it. Deserves it. She does. Me. Want it. She seemed to, tonight, with the ice cream. Was so messed up. Why? Just so tired. Still so tired. If I can just sleep a little, just a little. God. Shouldn't hurt like this. Agh, fuck me. Not going away. Can't sleep. Think of nothing, think of nothing, nothing. Just… Ahhhg, hurts. Really fucking hurts.
He lay still, face pinched, breathing quickly for ten minutes before he gave in and turned on the light.
He heard her breathe in suddenly next to him as he popped the cap off the T3.
"Greg?" he heard her ask sleepily behind his back. "What is it?"
"Nothing," he said glancing over his shoulder at her. He held up the pill. "You were right." He smiled ruefully and swallowed it, making a face at the room temperature cranberry juice.
"You okay?" she asked propping herself up on her elbow.
"Yeah," he said, turning to her. "Sorry I woke you up."
"No, no," she said. "Is it bad?"
"No," he said. "Go back to sleep."
"Mmm, okay," she said sleepily.
He snapped the light off and lay back down on his side, hoping it would kick in quickly. He smiled through the pain when he felt her spoon up against him and drape a hand over his chest.
So nice, warm, strong hand, God I love… want to… shit, no, can't, damn leg, Jesus, shouldn't be like this… something not… but God so good her breath right there back of the neck, really want to but really hurts not right something's not… better in the morning, she'll still be there, Saturday, all day to… definitely skip golf if… need it, both of us, God really want it… really really… leg just…shit…can't be right…muscles don't…not even infection, though could be, but from the injection the other day? not right, can't be it…but could be, pain a funny thing, hard to diagnose by itself…if it would just go away so I can think… better in the morning, sleep first, better… so warm behind me, sharp elbow under my arm, against the ribs, Jesus Christ so lucky, don't screw it up…didn't have to with the juice, though, stuff is so awful, why'd he have to say it even if he is right… don't care, rather drink gallons of water, should be doing that, flush out the infection, how'd I get a UTI at all…better maybe not to, though, with it…though we've got condoms around here somewhere, surely we do, or can go buy some…something that should really be delivered, nothing worse than being ready to go and no rubbers…better to answer the door with a hard-on than drive with one, real hazard, worse almost than being drunk…damn leg, should not hurt like this, shouldn't need T3, shouldn't need more than ibuprofen if it's just muscular…referred pain could be but where from? any number of places, still feels…weird…sharp? dull? constant? intermittent? radiating? throbbing? all the other questions…hard to say…quad such a large group…which individual muscle, don't even know that…touch them each carefully…nothing…pressure doesn't seem to make a difference…must be leaving nail marks in the skin, yes, can feel those, really hurts unbelievable…could always be related to the infection, weird that they strike at the same time…infection most likely suspect with fever, would've run more tests if it'd been me, imaging studies, though God I really didn't want to stay there a second longer…probably would've kicked the guy out no questions asked if he'd showed up and stuck himself like I did, wouldn't have listened at all after what I did Thursday, came off the wrong way, but shit they wouldn't listen, never felt anything like it before, holy…there it goes…sweet…so sweet…can sleep now…sleep…sleep…warm…sleep.
Ohhhhhhhhcraaaap. Codeine, unreal. Ridiculous. Can't be right, this can't be right. Should not hurt like this. Something's really…really…re…al…ly…not…some…thing…not…right…reaaaaaaalllyyyymessed up. Cold…really cold…but no…no something…no what?...something important…really messed up…damn codeine, can't think straight…slept through the high again…did I sleep?...probably, don't remember…but too tired to have slept…something not right…it's really cold in here…really tired…what woke me up?...she?...no…she's asleep can hear her breathe, soft, good there next to me…would be nice if she…over here again…so warm next to me, nice…really cold…not right, not right, something not right…wasn't she?...woke up earlier?...or was that yesterday?...didn't she, against me? nice, spooning?...not anymore, she's over there…really cold, tired, can't think…something…what was it?...why am I awake? so tired…makes no sense…kind of sore, maybe my back? did something to it?
He rolled on to his back and a flash of pain hit him.
Leg, leg, the leg, that's it, holy crap that hurts…codeine for that…time for another dose? don't know, don't care, really hurts.
He turned back on to his right side and fumbled in the dark at the nightstand, nearly knocking the juice over before he found the pill bottle. Hands shaking, he got it open and picked one out, working up the saliva to swallow it. No more lukewarm cranberry juice.
Cranberry juice…disgusting…taste of T3, acrid, gross…cranberry juice? why? why?...seems significant…ohhhh, that, UTI…so, cold…but no…what was it? come on, remember…seems like an easy one…goes with the UTI…what…can't think…was it?...ohhh, yes, fever, that was it, no fever, no, don't feel like I have fever, just spaced, really spaced…from the…the…the…codeine, yeah…really really spaced…can't think…just go to sleep instead…so tired, sleep, sleep.
An hour already?...feels like it…couldn't see anything when I woke up earlier…only an hour though?...did I sleep?...feel like I did, but still tired…maybe not though…oh yes was five o'clock, past six now, so only an hour…but God it hurts, need more, not working, hurts…shouldn't take anymore, not yet…already so spaced…but…really hurts…can't take more, shouldn't…tough it out tough it out can do this can do this…just…really tired…too tired to sleep…
Suddenly he felt her moving, stirring, waking. Then her hands on his back, trying carefully to wake him up.
"Hey," she said softly, voice full of sleep, "you awake?"
"Not really," he mumbled into his pillow.
Her body next to his, a hand running down his arm.
"Okay?" she asked tentatively, noting his rigid posture.
"Tired," he said, voice muffled by the pillow.
Her hand rested on his arm.
"I'm going to go in for a few hours if that's okay," she said. "I'll try to be back by noon. Need anything?"
"Just to sleep," he sighed, wishing she'd go away and leave him alone.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said tiredly, "go. I'm fine. Just tired. Go."
Her hand squeezed his arm quickly, affectionately, and then her fingers running up his arm and into his hair briefly, almost patting him on the head, before he felt her roll over and the weight on the mattress redistribute when she got up.
He heard her get into the shower and knocked back another pill. He needed to sleep.
He listened to the shower run, faintly smelling soap and shampoo, good, clean smells, and then the squeal of the pipes when she turned it off. He heard her moving around, getting dressed, in and out of the bedroom, the smell of coffee, comforting domestic morning sounds all around him before he fell asleep again.
Stacy exchanged the half-drunk glass of cranberry juice on the night table with a fresh glass of water before she left, somewhat amazed that he'd slept through her getting dressed. He'd always been such a light sleeper. He looked okay, though. Just tired.
All the same, as she paused at the bedroom door, glancing back at his sleeping form, she thought she might call him later when they took a break to make sure he was okay. He wouldn't like it…but maybe she'd do it anyway, she thought as she let herself out and locked the door quietly behind her.
Whazaa?...hhhhmphmm…ohh man, soooooo screwed up…soooooo…screweddddddd…uppppppp…what?...light outside, day…still in bed…why?...something…something…feels important…haven't been this spaced since that time in college…feeeeeel gooooooood though…like then…but gooooooooder…no, betttterrrr…errrrrerrrrrerrrr…heh, funny noise…whaz?...day, right, day, yeah…day?...still…just…a little…weird…day outside…me, bed, inside…feel dirty, need a shower…shower would be nice…hot shower…cold in here…day…day…day…why…in bed…day?...whysospaced?...and gooooood…what makes goooooood?...don't think she's here but screw it not going to move to check feel too goooood…different kind of gooooood…sort of…similar…but not…if she's here she'll let me know…way too gooood to move, not gonna move, nope…not…gonna…move…noooooo…zzzzzzz…
Two hours later, another siren, but he was already half-awake.
Owww owww owww, leg really hurts, why?...seems like there was a reason…can't…don't…remember…but shit it hurts…wasn't there…something…about Empirin?...no, no, Empirin's a cough med, not coughing, was I coughing? don't think so…Empirin, no, not Empirin, something else…ohh yes codeine yes T3 yes bottle of it yes somewhere yes there it is yes…
He clumsily reached for the bottle and knocked the glass of water over in the process.
Shit shit uncoordinated shit, water, supposed to be drinking water, lots of it…water water everywhere not a drop to drink…who was that?...nursery rhyme…no, before that…Keats?...no, not Keats…albatross guy…laudanum guy…what was his name…Samuel Taylor blank…Zachary Taylor?...no, president…twelfth president…not him…albatross guy…with the ancient mariner…kind of like Grand Marnier, wouldn't mind a drop of that right now…Samuel Taylor something…wouldn't mind a drop of laudanum right now either…but what? was thinking something before that, seemed important, something…can't recall…ohh, ohhh, water, glass, klutz knocked the glass over, water, supposed to be drinking lots of water…should get up and get more and drink…but…so tired, so nice, so comfortable, don't wanna move…but…supposed to…know it was important but can't think of why…maybe she?...should do it anyway…get in trouble means no sex…or maybe, get in trouble means no sex then make up then make-up sex and make-up sex is always really good…so…I…should get up?...would that be a fight?...or I shouldn't get up?...shit, don't remember…kinda thirsty, though…water, yes, that's right, water, want some water…water water everywhere not a drop to drink.
She shut and locked the door behind her and stepped out of the foyer into the living room.
Empty couch. Television off. Nothing out of place to suggest he'd been up. A quick glance at the kitchen revealed the only sign that he'd been out of bed at all: the cabinet where they kept drinking glasses was ajar.
She frowned as she walked quickly toward the bedroom.
"Greg?" she called again.
No answer.
Dammit, should've called him. Should've called him. Dammit. Dammit! His stubborn pride! Sometimes I could just— It's past two and he's hardly even moved from the look of things. Not like him at all. Dammit!
"Greg?" she said softly, going into the bed room. There he was, exactly as she had left him this morning.
Nothing.
Just as she was going to turn away, having established that he was sleeping, he stirred, blinking and looking up at her.
She smiled down sympathetically at him. He looked so tired still, curled up under the covers.
"Hey," he said with a sleepy smile, left hand going up to rub his face, then settling on the comforter, "you're back. How was it?"
"Work," she said. "The usual. Nothing I couldn't have missed. I should've stayed. You look horrible."
"Thanks," he said sarcastically.
"Have you moved at all?" she asked, trying to conceal her worry.
"I got up a few times," he said nonchalantly. "This codeine seems to knock me out."
"It still hurts?" she asked. That didn't seem right.
"It's not bad," he said.
"Liar," she accused.
"Am not," he countered defensively while turning on to this back. He failed to totally suppress a wince. She saw him.
"Are to," she sneered, worried but always willing to play childish games with him. "Or you wouldn't be taking anything for it."
"It really isn't that bad," he said sincerely. "Codeine can pack a punch just like Demerol. Any narcotic. Besides, I'm actually doing what I should be doing, following orders for once, and you're complaining?"
"I'm just worried," she said with a sigh.
"Don't be," he assured. "I'll be fine by tomorrow. Monday at the latest."
"Okay," she said. She wasn't convinced but she didn't want to push him. "How's your pee?"
"Nothing to be proud of," he replied, scrunching his nose at the thought. "Ugly."
"Still?" she asked. "That doesn't seem right. Is it darker?"
"No, doctor, it's not," he said sarcastically.
She gave him a reproachful look.
"I didn't see the first sample," he said with a shrug. "It hasn't changed color as far as I can tell. A little darker than the average blood-in-urine color but everyone's different. It fits with my long history of multi-colored piss." He rolled his eyes.
She didn't look convinced.
"Really," he said, "it's fine. It'll be gone by tomorrow."
She gave him one last stern glare before letting up, face softening into a small smile. "Did you eat?"
"Not hungry," he said.
The reproachful look returned. "Greg—"
"It's a side effect of codeine," he said defensively, "and most antibiotics."
"You need to eat," she pressed. "You're going to eat."
"Yes, ma'am," he said like a lazy soldier snapping reluctantly to attention.
"I'm serious," she said at his mocking tone.
"So am I," he said. They both knew he wasn't.
"This isn't going to be a fight," she warned.
"Not unless it has to be," he countered.
"I'm not going to fight with you while you're sick," she said rolling her eyes. "Not while you have an excuse for losing." She smiled to emphasize the play she intended.
"That'd be the only reason you'd win," he mumbled.
She glowered at him. "No fighting until you can hold up your end of the make-up sex," she said with a wink.
"That sounds like a challenge," he said, brightening at the thought. "Let's skip the fight and go straight to the make-up sex. I'm in favor of that."
"Only if you eat," she said.
"Stop that or it'll be like screwing my mother," he groused. "I like my eyes. I don't want to have to gouge them out."
"Greg…" she said warningly.
"Okay, okay," he relented. "Go warm something up." He paused. "But if I'm asleep when you come back, let me sleep. Sleep is more important than food right now."
She gave him a hard look and went to the kitchen to warm up some soup.
She put the bowl of soup down on the table next to him and went to the closet to change into something more comfortable. Jeans and a knit top would do. She undressed slowly, back turned to him, knowing that he wouldn't be able to resist a look if he wasn't asleep.
When she turned around again, pulling the top on, she saw how relaxed his face was. No way he could've reset it that quickly. She stepped closer and whispered his name. All she got in response was the deep, heavy breathing of sleep.
He really was out.
She hadn't expected that.
She gathered up the soup and the empty glass from last night and left quietly.
She'd brought the file home with a degree of hesitation, but her reasoning was that if he was sick, then he was sick and he wanted to be left alone, and if he was better, he'd probably want to do work himself. He was always writing articles; he always had work of some kind stashed away at home for a weekend. They worked best together when they were both working—together, physically, in the same room, but apart. He got bored quickly and she did too, though not as quickly as he did, and work was simply easier than anything else. Then they'd go out or stay in or whatever and it wouldn't be about work—most evenings weren't about work, though they were often filled up work, one of the two of them having to stay late at the office or take work home—but the hours before and after noon needed filling and work was always there, always waiting.
She opened the file and tried to concentrate.
Should've called him, she thought, kicking herself. Really should've called him.
But he was probably right. Even if he looked like hell and wasn't moving. He was probably right. He'd be fine tomorrow. Sleep was good for him now. Yes. He'd be fine.
She bent over the file, able to concentrate now, and began reading.
He sighed and pushed himself up.
The apartment was quiet enough that the dull thudding of his feet on the floor took her out of the file she'd been engrossed in and brought her back to reality. She glanced at her watch—no, it couldn't be that late. She hastily put the file down and scrambled up just in time to hear the bathroom door close.
"Hey," she said when he emerged.
He blinked heavily, momentarily confused before he recognized her and smiled tiredly, leaning on the door frame. "Hey," he said.
She patted the couch. "How about a change of scenery?"
"Sure," he said. "I'm not great company right now, though." He closed the distance between the bathroom and the couch with a noticeable limp. "Can barely string two thoughts together."
He lay down immediately and she raised a concerned eyebrow.
"Codeine," he explained. "Side effects. Much better when you lie down. Anything that isn't walking."
"How about sitting?" she asked.
"Think I might fall over," he said tiredly. "Head's swimming like crazy. Told you I wasn't the best company. Not good for anything but lying here."
"How's your leg?"
"It's okay," he said. "Doesn't hurt much. Feels kind of heavy and tingly."
"You were limping," she pointed out.
"Yeah," he said. "It's heavy."
"What does heavy mean?" she questioned.
"Probably that I slept on it all day and all night and it needs to wake up from that," he said. "Kind of like having your foot fall asleep for hours and hours. Gonna feel weird until the circulation's right again."
She still looked worried. Unconvinced.
He propped himself up on his elbows. "Come on," he said. "I know what I'm talking about. It's okay. I just—" he blinked and shook his head at a sudden rush of dizziness, bringing a hand up to rub his face "—told you my head's messed up—need to take it easy for a while." He lay back down. "Did you warm something up earlier? I'm sorry I fell asleep. Hungry now if the offer hasn't expired." He smiled weakly.
"Of course it hasn't," she said with a warm smile. "Soup from last night sound good?"
"Sounds great," he said smiling back.
She smiled and handed him the remote. "Bet you five bucks Caddyshack's on again."
"No way," he said, "you had all afternoon to sneak a peak at the cable guide. I'm not taking that bet."
"Whatever," she said rolling her eyes and went to the kitchen to re-heat the bowl she'd stowed in the fridge earlier, happy that he seemed better. It was really frightening, seeing him so sick.
She heard him turn the television on and channel surf.
"You were right," he called from the couch. "It's on."
"Good thing you didn't take the bet," she called back as she placed the bowl in the microwave, "or you'd have to pay up."
She set the timer and went back to the living room.
He glanced up as she settled on the arm of the couch at his feet, then back at the television.
"Yeah," he said.
She ran a nail lightly along his left foot. "We got a new case today," she said.
He glanced up again, "Yeah?", then back to the television.
"You'd love it," she said stroking his foot, "Typical. Guy comes to the E.R. with infected hemorrhoids—"
"Gross," House interjected. "I'm glad that's not a typical case for me."
"Shut up," she said and tickled his foot. He jerked it away but couldn't help giggling. "So he was treated and sent home—"
"Did he get an ass donut?" he asked. "That's what I wanna know."
She playfully smacked his feet. "Stop interrupting," she admonished. "He came back the next day with a rash—"
"Was the rash on his ass?" House asked.
"Stop it," she said through gritted teeth, smiling, and squeezed his foot lightly.
He glanced up at her and wagged his eyebrows, then back to the tv.
"You're such a child," she said. "You want to hear the story or not?"
"Okay, okay," House relented, "continue. Guy has a rash that may or may not be in a delicate area and he may or may not have brought his ass ring with him."
She glared at him silently.
When she didn't start talking again, he glanced at her. "Go on," he said, "I'm listening."
The microwave beeped and she got up.
"This conversation isn't over," he called after her.
"I liked you better when you were comatose," she called, taking the bowl out of the microwave and grabbing a spoon.
"If you don't tell me what happened to Ass Donut Guy I'll never be able to sleep again," he declared.
"Are you going to keep your comments to yourself until the story's over?" she asked in a condescending tone as if he were a five year old, placing the soup on the coffee table in front of him.
"And if I don't?" he asked, not moving to get up. "Will you take away my finger-paints and spank me for being a bad boy?"
"I'm going to spank you right now if you don't sit up and eat this," she said.
"Maybe I want to be spanked," he said with a contrary look.
"In that case, I'll take away your finger-paints and send you to your room," she said in a half-purr. "No dessert, no tv."
"One of those things is threatening enough to get me to move," he said, slowly pushing himself up, "but I'm not telling which one."
"I think I know which one it is," she said coyly. "You're miserable without your finger-paints."
He snorted a laugh then paused. "Ugh," he groaned, stopping on his right elbow and rubbing his face with his left hand, "I am never taking that crap again."
"Not getting you high enough?" she teased. "Need to go back for another hit of the good stuff?"
"You could be my sugar mamma and bring it home for me," he said, trying again and making it all the way up this time. "I always wanted to be a kept man."
"You'd need at least three or four keepers," she pointed out.
"I offer competitive wages," he said proudly.
"I think you're missing the point," she said sitting down next to him.
"Oh what-ever," he said and bent over the soup.
After a few spoonfuls and the requisite appreciative noises, he said, "So what happened with Ass Rash Guy?"
She gave him a look.
"I swear I'll be good this time," he said and held up two fingers. "Scout's honor."
"You were never a boy scout," she said rolling her eyes.
"Was so," he said around a mouthful.
"Maybe the 'come to my treehouse after school and I'll show you my badges' type, but not a real boy scout," she said.
"Oh no, I was a real boy scout. The camping, canoeing, helping old ladies across the street type," he said. "Seriously. There was this kid we called Stumpy and one year he—"
"Okay, okay," she said, wary of another of his lecherous yarns. "Ass Rash Guy—heh, try saying that three times fast." He glanced at her and she saw him thinking about it. "Don't," she said, "or no story."
He pouted. "Better be a good story," he mumbled.
She gave him a hard look, but continued. "Treated the rash and sent him home again," she said. "He comes back again two days later saying he's had trouble breathing since they treated the hemorrhoids. They diagnose him with asthma and—"
"Latex allergy," House interrupted, mouth full of soup.
She smacked his arm. "Spoil the ending," she mumbled.
He swallowed the soup and raised his eyebrows in question, wanting his diagnosis confirmed.
"Yes," she said rolling her eyes, "you're right. Latex allergy. He's suing the hospital claiming he wasn't correctly informed about latex allergies and should've been given the option of having his doctor wear non-latex gloves."
"There's nothing like the smell of frivolity in the morning," he said. "Almost as invigorating as bullshit."
She shrugged. "He's got a case," she said.
"Negotiating the settlement?" he asked.
"Reading the preliminaries is more like it," she said with a laugh. "I just got this case today."
He stopped eating and tilted his head to the side, pondering something.
She rolled her eyes. "Oh no," she said, "not another lecture." She flopped back on the couch in mock annoyance. He sat still, slightly forward, quiet, not touching the bowl.
"That's not it," he said vaguely, as though he were far away from their living room.
"You've got that pontificating look on your face," she pouted. "I can see it through the back of your head."
But she was smiling to herself. He was thinking—he was lost in the place he went when he was deep in thought—and that meant he was okay. Thank God. She might tease him but she was so relieved she'd listen to him lecture all day. She trailed a finger up his spine.
"You love talking so much," she said. "You should teach."
He snorted a laugh. "Students are so much worse than patients," he said. "My residency was a nightmare. Interns and students everywhere, wanting their hands held, thinking it was part of my job to listen to them. I won't be arrested for drugging a patient, but a student…" He shook his head. "No way. But I don't think it's just latex."
"I knew it!" she exclaimed triumphantly, sitting up.
"Oh yeah?" he said. "If you know it, tell me what it is."
"Probably something so far out in left field it bounced off the foul pole," she teased.
"Hey," he said with a shrug, "this could save you time and the hospital money, but if you're going to insult me, I won't even—"
She smacked him lightly with a pillow and he laughed. "You are so irritating!" she said, mock-angry.
"Hit me again and I'm calling the cops," he said hysterically. "Domestic violence is domestic violence, no matter what. I'll scream!"
She ignored him. "Hmm, let's see," she said musingly. "You were extra quiet, so it's a good one. Nothing to do with his alleged ass donut, so—"
"Betcha his proctologist wears latex gloves," House interrupted.
"Betcha he doesn't have a proctologist," Stacy shot back. "Don't interrupt when I'm making fun of you."
"Yessum," he said. "But you're not even warm. So not even close to being warm. You need a parka you're so cold."
She gazed intently at him. "You don't even have a theory, do you?" she said.
"I'll never tell," he said mysteriously, "now that you've insulted my pride."
"You don't have a clue," she said with a devious grin. "You've got nothing at all."
"Baiting me into revealing my secrets?" he said. "That is so last year."
She smiled smugly. "I know you," she said. "You wouldn't be able to shut up if you actually had something."
"Well," he said haughtily as he picked up the soup spoon again, "I guess you'll never know."
"I feel very deprived right now," she said. "I may cry."
Hose ignored her. "How old is he?" he asked. "I'm assuming he filed this himself, so he's not a kid."
"No, not a child," she said. "Can't say the same for you, though."
"I'm wounded," he said with a sidelong eye roll. "It's fairly rare that an allergy would develop so suddenly in an adult—especially an allergy severe enough to cause asthma. Skin rash maybe but not asthma. Seriously, how old is he?"
"Seriously?" she said mockingly.
He glanced at her again, sidelong. "Hey," he said, "you asked for it. Call me intrigued."
She sighed. "You can't just solve your cases," she grumbled to herself, "you've got to solve mine too." She remained secretly pleased. "Okay," she said, "he's fifty-two."
House ignored the barb. "Otherwise good health?" he asked.
"Medical history's clean aside from a cholesterol problem that's been treated successfully with diet and exercise," she answered.
"Fifty-two year olds don't just develop latex allergies out of nowhere," House said.
"We know," she said with a sigh. "Our medical consultant—and we do have one, I assure you—says that it's rare but possible."
House shook his head. "Doesn't fit."
"You've got a better explanation?" she challenged.
He stirred the soup idly with the spoon, thinking.
That was it. Now she'd lost him to the hunt.
"Oh God," she groaned, "I wasn't serious." She nudged him. "Come on, Doctor Einstein, give it a rest. No one likes cold soup."
He wasn't listening. "What time of year did this happen?" he asked vaguely.
"Greg," she admonished, "don't bring your work home like this."
He glanced quickly at her but he didn't have to: she'd already realized it.
"Dumb thing to say," she said holding her hands up, "I know."
His upper lip twitched but he said nothing, still thinking.
"Okay," she said. "It was in the fall. I'd have to get the file to see for sure, but I think October or November. Last year."
"And you're just now getting it?" he said.
She shrugged. "He claims that it got worse in April. Bad enough to keep him from going to work."
"April?" House echoed vaguely, unconsciously scratching his chin. "Was he checked for other allergies?"
"Duh," she said rolling her eyes. "Came up clear."
"When was the test?" he asked, running through ideas in his head.
"January I think," she said. "I'd have to check to make sure."
"Did they test him again after it got worse?" he asked.
"Will you stop grilling me," she said, nudging him in the ribs. "I'm not one of your patients."
"Stop that," he giggled, "tickles. Trying to eat here."
"Would you rather I stuffed a sock in your mouth?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.
He ignored her. "Find out if they tested him again," he said.
"And?" she said expectantly. "I played the game, now you tell me what you think it is."
"I'm not sure," he dodged.
"So?" she said. "What's stopping you? You love talking about your theories. Spill it."
"Avocados," he said mysteriously and picked up the spoon again.
"Avocados," she repeated dully. She'd hoped for something a little more interesting than avocados.
He nodded, eating the soup.
"Okay, the little light didn't go off in my head," she said. "You're going to have to explain it. Bear with the rest of us mortals as we stumble blindly along in your shadow."
He rolled his eyes. "Latex allergies can trigger food allergies—to avocados, bananas, chestnuts, other things. The avocado is the most likely culprit statistically and it's part of a heart-healthy cholesterol-lowering diet."
"And they wouldn't be nice and ripe until about April," she said, following the course of his logic. "I see."
She gazed at him for a moment, taking him in.
"You're making a leap," she said. "Trusting the guy to stick to his diet."
House shrugged. "He could be digging into guac with bacon-fried corn chips for all I know. Guac would do the job."
"Don't try to shrug this off," she said playfully, "you're trusting Ass Donut Latex Guy to stick to his diet." She shook her head in disbelief. "Trusting a patient," she said. "You really are sick."
"You say it like it's a crime," House said and pushed the half-empty bowl away, leaning back.
"That's all you're going to eat?" she asked.
"I'm not too hungry," he said.
She gave him a disapproving look.
"Come on," he said, "I've been asleep for the past day. I'm not exactly in need of calories."
She appraised him dubiously. He gazed back at her with a shrugging smile.
"Okay," she said finally, "but you're going to drink a full glass of cranberry juice."
"Aww, come on," he complained, "I hate that stuff. Just bring me water."
"You wanna get well or what?" she said. "Because the sooner you get well…"
She gave him a very seductive look and he shivered a little.
"Okay," he said, voice breaking ever so slightly. "I'll have the juice."
"If you say so," she said with a devilish grin.
"I do say so," he said, grinning back.
She took the soup and brought him the juice, musing his hair as she went back to the study, thinking she'd leave him alone with his movie.
When she went to check on him ten minutes later, the glass was half-empty and he was fast asleep again.
