Chapter Text
His patients in the last month or so had low prognosis. Death or hospice. They all became vegetables because he was too late to save them or they had progressed too far along to save. Either way complete goners. The ducklings hung their heads low with whispers of affirmations that they did all they could. Shame haunted them as well as grief. They protected their hearts with care under his eye as he shouted at them. Loud enough to make nurses turn heads. Loud enough for Wilson to shield them from his wrath. Ushering them out discreetly as he does what he always does. They stand at a standstill. House refusing to be the first to break. “What’s wrong?” Wilson demands. His tone carries throughout the room. The voice bouncing off the windows. House shrugs. “My team are a bunch of morons who deserve to be yelled at for their stupidity.” Wrong answer apparently as Wilson pinched his nose. The consistent sour mood clearly wearing the man down. “That’s not what I was asking.” Today wasn’t a day where he wanted James’ unwanted attention. Where they played their game. “How is the little baldie? Bright eyed who woos at the sight of you. Big fat crush Anya? Do hospitals get a refund if make-a-wish-kids die before their wish comes? Or do the parents still get the show.” A sore spot for the doe eyed man who sees death everyday that it surrounds him much like predators do to prey. Anya was one of the many kids who tugged at his bleeding heart strings. Wilson scoffed. Still it doesn’t make him move. Not even a smidge. “I threw out all your weird trophies that your cancer kids gave you. Makes you look like a serial killer.” A hoarder. Same difference.
Finally Wilson’s eyes flair in rage. Like he was seeing red. Imaging him dead plotting his murder. One step away from pushing him off the roof. “House. Why did you do that?” His voice is tight with rage. Fists closed painfully. White knuckles that are sure to leave some marks on his palms. Another step away from a shouting match. House shrugs. Tired of talking. It was a long day. “Could you leave? I have important things to do.” Wilson sputtered. Enough for him to walk into his office. They parted, Wilson storming into his. Slamming the door loudly. A painting sounded like it fell. A perfect moment to make a break for it. Greg quickly gathered his things and swiftly walked to the elevator. By the time Wilson came barreling through his office the elevator doors had closed. House had lied. He didn’t throw away his “gifts.” Finally he shuttered an exhale. No one was around. No one could ever know.
The elevators opened. Hand in cane he walked past the receptionist as fast as he humanly could. Mainly to avoid Cuddy. Still her unmaimed legs caught up to him. Cuddy said her piece, “I’m here if you need to talk.” Condescension written all over her guilt ridden face. An undertone of disappointment. An accusing glare of why couldn’t you save them? You're a world renowned doctor, you should’ve tried harder. You should’ve been better. “So if I need a consultation in my bedroom you’ll come running?” Cuddy frowned. Regretting her words already. Or regretting trying to treat him as a human. It never did work in her favour. He wondered why she still tries. “You’re such an ass.” When they parted it felt like the Red Sea. People moved out of their way. Afraid of whose wrath they’d rather face. You should've saved them, rang in his head as he drove back to his apartment. Dirty plates and dishes stacked in a pile. Flies weaving about the area like it was an obstacle course. Fluttering around with their annoyingly loud wings. Feed, feed, feed! They shout. Either at him or themselves he didn’t want to know. Mold was definitely bonded all the dishes together. He can’t muster the energy to feel disgusted. Just more tired.
Starving felt grounding. A constant reminder that he wasn’t just a ghost roaming the halls of a hospital. House wasn’t a body in the morgue that died some years ago. A constant stabbing pang that pestered him more than his team did. Begging for more food. Anything nutritional. But his stomach shrank over the years. His habits slowly but steadily became a daily occurrence. At first it wasn’t on purpose. One or two skipped meals when he was stressed and working a case. But it became more as the days went on. Skipping a meal became the norm. Then came skipping two. But one thing stayed the same, eating lunch with Wilson. If he were lucky he could eat a few snacks here and there. If he didn’t throw it up. The half digested meal looked disappointed. Shaking its head at failing such a simple task. Eating should’ve been easy. Why wasn’t it easy?
The simplest “meals” would send him reeling in nausea. A lie he told Wilson. Really when he ate the food melted into ash. Calculating how much calories he was putting into his body. How much did he need to burn off? If he ate too much he couldn’t swallow. His subconscious wouldn’t allow it. Knowing it was poison to him. That it would fatten him up. He looked a lot better skinner. Almost everyone did. House’s once lean body is now deteriorating. Some sort of symbolism of how his mental state finally manifested into a physical form. Making him a prime example of high functioning untreated mental illness.
Excuses flew left and right. He had a pain problem but was using pain management as treatment. He was fine. House was a Doctor for a reason. Until his thinning stature became worrisome he would continue treatment. If he were to look in the mirror he could see his bones sticking out. Old habits die hard he’d thought. Never changing his now new routine. It was established and he’d rather die than change it. Trying to unlearn a habit that’s been kicking for years is hard. Too hard work that likely wouldn’t pay off. Between all his vices this was harmless. It was unfortunate that his stomach pains didn’t last long enough. It wasn’t like before.
It growled at him. Trying in vain to get his attention. The human body could go days without eating. House was fine. Tomorrow he’s going to call in sick. Then restart the week. The haggard man collapsed on the couch in exhaustion. The cane dropped to the floor with a loud crash. The pain in his leg kept him from sleeping. His thigh was being stabbed over and over again. For hours on end. No relief in sight besides the Vicodin he popped. He messaged his leg for something, any relief. Desperate, he pulled the gray tool box. Propping himself up he tied a tourniquet around his arm. Morphine needle at the ready, he injected the pain relieving meds. Savouring the moment of bliss to come. Leisurely he takes his time to dispose of the needle. The tourniquet on his arm could wait a few moments. The pain in his leg dulled. More of a body ache than visceral. Hazy clouded his eyes. As quick as the bliss was, so was his failing consciousness. House is aware that his body is failing. Flirting dangerously close to death. Edging the brink as he can’t move. Everything is dizzy and his vision is blurred till the edges are black.
When he finally wakes he’s sprawled on the wooden floor. A puddle of vomit beneath his head like a twisted pillow. Had he not been on his side he would’ve choked on his own fluids. A very sad way to die. Choking on your own vomit. At least if he was going to die, make it somewhat funny like dying on a peanut. Or an oyster. By the way the chucks are dried and when he moves his mouth slurry stomach contents crack in protest he guesses he vomited a few hours ago. In a snail’s pace he picked his cane up and waddled towards his bedroom. Uncaring of the filth he wears. Unbothered by his irritated skin wanting the stomach acid off. With a huff of relief he curled into himself. Trying to ignore the headaches and body aches of thrashing about on the floor. Definitely seizing at one point or felt like it. House could sleep it off. Two days from now is when he’ll get it checked out. He could survive by then. He didn’t get himself checked out.
It’s been a little over six weeks since he and Wilson’s little spat. House would dare say he has been handling it well. His frame was getting thinner and thinner by the day. Sometimes when the winds were strong it felt he would be blown away. Like the house in wizard of oz. All his clothes looked baggy on him. A couple sizes too small. Almost like hand-me-downs from his father. It hid his body well. The cold seeped into his bones. Plaguing him with frozen blood. Why are hospitals so cold? When did they become so cold?
House began to shiver at work. Usually trying to keep it inside the office. But his hands trembled traitorously. Fatigue clung to him like a baby sucking on a mother’s tit. Forever tired. Not even coffee mixed with energy drinks and uppers could wake him effectively. It only made his heart pound to the verge of a heart attack. Too many eyes on him that faked their care. They knew how much it stung. They knew what Gregory was made for saving lives. Patients asked with increased concern for themselves if he was okay. He asked if they were really sick, they said yes.
My skin isn’t my own and it’s vacuum sealed to me. There’s glee in this. Happiness that finally comes when his mental decline becomes a real illness. Finally people can see, can know. But he hates when they see him. A wide range of emotions evoke every time he comes into work. Disgust, pity, anger, sadness and worry. A worry that they should strangle themselves. Shove it up their arse. Bury it before work. Whatever ritual works that doesn’t make them look like that. House is invisible unless he wants to be seen. Screaming and shouting at the rooftops to be heard. Not a soul cares and he prefers it this way. A pattern has formed and it’s not breaking any time soon. House refuses to let it.
The ducklings now exchange looks. Eyeing House. Hesitation written on their guilt laced faces. He snaps his fingers for their attention, “Earth to dum dums! MRI with contrast, full blood workup and new coffee! Stat!” Chase scrambled to get out of his designated chair. Suspiciously he can't wait to get out of his sight more than usual. Foreman collected himself more gracefully. A curt nod of understanding thrown towards Camron for support? Odd. Camron smiled at the support thrown her way. Courage she has no right to have. “Are you okay, House?” Fuck. It’s an intervention. Since House is a betting man he bet on it being drugs. “I’m just peachy.” Sarcasm laced in his words. A smile forced on his face. It creeped her out. They are such worrywarts that it was annoying. “I’m worried. You have a loss in appetite, lost weight alarmingly fast and you haven’t been yourself.” You don’t know me. Never have and never will. The glimpses you see are not for your eyes. You shall never know because once you do you’ll hold me like glass. Broken and unfixable. It’s easier to hate me to your core than pity what I’ve become. “I’m just gettin’ the summer bod. Trying to woo the ladies with my charm.”
“House! I’m being serious. It’s like you're the walking dead. I think you should…” She inhaled. Mentally preparing herself for the worst. Worry taking over self preservation. “I think going to rehab is in your best interest.” An over exaggeration. People are so dramatic. Blew things out of proportions for their little agendas. Camron failed at channeling her inner Foreman. Too much care in her tone. “Are you comparing me to your dead husband? I feel flattered that you think so highly of me.” Camron reminded him of a younger Lisa. Bright eyed, full of hope that she could fix him. Find that weak spot where he’d roll over and show her the beast that masked the human. Even her contorting face in anger was similar. Delicate hands slam onto the table, suddenly standing up. “You have no right to bring him up! I don’t-…” I don’t even know why I even try. A phrase he’s heard before. Many times in dreams. They chant their disappointments. A beat of silence before he spoke, “Are you still going to get the coffee?” With a huff she unglued herself to the carpet. Opening the door with more force than necessary she stomped away. Fleeing with her tail between her legs. Camron didn’t care about him. No, she wanted to doctor him. Stitch him up unlike her late husband.
Alone in the fishbowl office relaxed him. People gawked and stared like in a zoo. Ogling at the animals. Enjoying the view, enjoying the gossip that he supplied. Something he controlled. A message to anyone that your secrets are their secrets. The cloak proclaimed itself in the absence of sound. Tick, tick, tick. Lunch was around the corner. Looming over him. A hand wanders down to clutch his gurgling stomach from the glorious pain. House refuses to cave in the desire. He could go a day without eating. What was a day anyhow. The hollowness of his stomach filled the void he often felt. The emptiness didn’t make him feel as anguished. There in a brief moment there was bliss that drugs couldn’t supply. An internal satisfaction of what he was doing. He promised himself he’d eat a meal tomorrow, today he’ll indulge. What was the worst that could happen? Wilson wasn’t even in the same state. He was giving a stupid lecture on boring ol’ cancer. Cuddy having her own worries such as being a massive bitch. Even if she noticed she wouldn’t say anything. She wouldn’t do that to him. Lisa caring out of employee obligation. Wilson was Wilson. Caring was part of the package, unfortunately.
The cab home was the same. Silent to let him stew in his own thoughts. If he could run he would’ve ran to his home to burn away the food and muscles. The patient was fine. Benign tumours in her brain and lungs. Blast the body with chemo and good to go. Only one tumour was cancerous. Thanking her lucky stars he imagines. House notes the street lamps illuminating the way back. The cab stopped. House handed him the cash, getting out was more stainous than he remembered it being. The fire in his thigh flared as his stomach continued its cat scratching. Stumbling he got out, the cab without a trace of empathy drove away. House climbed the way up the stairs. Breathing more laboriously as he walked up. It felt like he walked up a flight of five stairs. Walking back into his home made him realize how empty his apartment became. Clothes strewn about, vomit still on the floor, dishes still piled. A real pig sty. With a heavy sigh he walked to the kitchen. The only clean cup was used for water. Cold water that he could feel snailing down his stomach. Filling the demanding thing. It was something. He drank another cup. Going to bed hungry was nostalgic. Reminded him of childhood when he misbehaved and got sent to his room without dinner. Tonight would be no different. Head hung down he limped slowly towards the tomb he called a bed. When his head hit the pillow he couldn’t even fight the sleep that overtook him.